m 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST 

OF 

ANITA  D.  S.  BLAKE 


THE 


POETICAL   WORKS 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


FTBST  AMERICAN  EDITION  (COMPLETE): 

WITH  SOME  REMARKS  ON 

THE  POETICAL  FACULTY  AND  ITS  INFLUENCE  ON  HUMAN  DESTINT; 

EMBRACING 

A  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICE, 

BY 

G.  G.  FOSTER. 


NEW    YORK: 

J.  S.   REDFTELD,  CLINTON    HALL. 
1845. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1845, 

By   J.    S.  REDFIELD, 

in  the  Clerlt's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for 

the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


STEREOTYPED    BY   REDFIELD    &   SAVAGE, 
13  Chambers  Street,  N.  Y. 


TO 

PARKE   GODWIN,   ESQ. 

Dear  Sir  :  — 

As  a  slight  acknowledgement  of  the  great  pleasure 
and  profit  I  have  derived  from  your  eloquent  defense  of 
Shelley,  as  well  as  a  testimonial  of  the  respect  and  affec- 
tion I  entertain  for  one  who,  though  but  in  the  flush  of 
youth,  has  already  done  so  much  in  every  way  for  the  cause 
of  Humanity,  permit  me  to  dedicate  to  you  this  volume. 
In  doing  this  I  feel  as  if  I  were  enabled  to  link  myself, 
somehow,  with  the  greatest  Poet  of  the  age  and  the  Critic 
who  has  best  appreciated  him. 

I  am  gratefuUy 

Yours, 

G.  G.  Foster. 
New  York,  August,  1845. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Considering  the  somewhat  singular  fact,  that 
there  never  has  been  published  in  the  United  States 
a  complete  edition  of  the  works  of  Shelley,  we  feel 
that  we  are  supplying  an  actual  want  in  our  litera- 
ture by  the  present  volume.  It  has  been  carefully 
edited — so  much  we  have  a  right  to  say.  As  to  the 
estimate,  critical  or  otherwise,  which  Mr.  Foster 
puts  upon  Mr.  Shelley's  poetry,  we  of  course  are 
not  called  upon  to  assume  the  responsibility.  One 
thing  we  believe  is  certainly  true — that  those  who 
have  heretofore  been  loudest  in  denouncing  and 
proscribing  Shelley,  have  known  least  of  him  and 
his  works. 

The  aspect  of  social,  political,  and  religious  ques- 
tions in  this  country  and  this  generation,  appears 
almost  like  the  beginning  of  the  fulfilment  of  Shel- 
ley's   prophetic    aspirations.     If   mankind    partook 


6 


ADVERTISEMENT, 


generally  of  the  love  and  benevolence  which  marked 
his  character,  his  doctrines  would  become  every  day 
less  and  less  objectionable.  As  it  is,  public  opinion 
is  undergoing  a  rapid  and  important  transition — one 
of  the  demands  of  which  has  seemed  to  us  to  be, 
that  the  works  of  Shelley  should  be  made  generally 
and  easily  accessible. 

New  York,  October ,  1845. 


PREFACE. 


In  presenting  the  poems  of  Shellky  to  the  American  public, 
the  editor  feels  that  he  is  in  the  performance  of  a  duty  —  that  he 
becomes,  as  it  were,  an  instrument  of  justice  —  a  justice  too  long 
delayed,  but  inevitable — to  one  of  the  noblest  sons  of  the  Great 
Genius,  son  -who  came  to  earth  a  messenger  from  heaven,  recalled 
ere  yet  his  prophecy  was  all  fulfilled  —  seen  only  through  tlie  dim 
and  distorted  vision  of  a  world  just  waking  from  a  dreaiy  slumber 
as  he  vanished  upward.  From  earliest  youth  Shelley  has  been 
of  my  idols ;  his  burning  genius  it  was  that  first  flamed  for  me 
over  the  world  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful  —  that  world  where  the 
soul  of  man  walks  uncumbered  of  its  chains,  and  holds  converse 
face  to  face  with  its  immortal  Source  :  and  ever  from  that  hour  I 
have  longed  to  express  my  thoughts  of  him  —  to  relate,  as  it  were, 
my  hfe  experience  in  my  knowledge  of  this  man. 

But  now  that  the  golden  moment  has  arrived,  and  this  long- 
sought  opportunity  is  before  me,  I  scarcely  know  where  to  begin, 
or  how  to  attempt  the  expression  of  that  with  which  my  heart  is 
full.  So  certain  does  it  seem  to  me  that  I  must  fall  short  of  ^vllat 
I  would  express  in  this  little  introduction  —  so  long  pondered  and 
dreamed  upon  —  the  es.sence  of  my  very  inmost  life  —  that  you  can 
not  conceive  how  weak  and  ineflBcient  appears  to  me  all  that 
which  I  have  to  say. 

First,  of  the  man,  Shelley  —  of  his  sad  experience  of  life — his 
fierce  and  bitter  struggles  with  the  storm  which  his  own  electric 
nature  gathered  about  him  —  his  weary  battle,  single  handed,  with 
a  world  in  arms — there  is  little  to  be  said  in  w^ords ;  but  that  little 
is  pregnant  with  deep  meaning  :  it  is  the  memoir  of  a  hero  and  a 
prophet  —  a  hero  without  outward  and  visible  deeds  of  heroism  —  a 
prophet  "without  honor  in  his  own  country."  or  earnest  audience 
anywhere  on  earth  —  who  poured  out  the  inspirations  witli  which 


8  PREFACE. 

his  soul  was  fraught,  whether  men  would  listen  or  no,  and  because 
he  was  impelled  by  a  divine  instinct,  and  could  not  forbear. 

Of  Shelley's  personal  character,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  it  was 
wholly  pervaded  by  the  same  unbounded  and  unquestioning  love 
for  his  fellow-men  —  the  same  holy  and  fervid  hope  in  their  ultimate 
virtue  and  happiness — the  same  scorn  of  baseness  and  hatred  of 
oppression  —  which  beam  forth  in  all  his  writings  with  a  pure  and 
constant  light.  The  theory  which  he  wrote  was  the  practice  which 
his  whole  life  exemplified.  Noble,  kind,  generous,  passionate, 
tender,  w^ith  a  courage  greater  than  the  courage  of  the  chief  of 
warriors,  for  it  could  endure — these  were  the  qualities  in  which 
his  life  was  embalmed. 

As  a  poet,  I  regard  Shelley  as  not  only  the  most  perfect  and  en- 
tire in  the  language,  but  as  the  possessor  in  their  highest  form  of  all 
the  diviner  attributes  of  the  poetical  nature  —  in  short,  the  prophet 
of  a  new^  era  in  the  history  of  humanity.  The  significant  changes 
which,  since  he  lived  and  died,  have  come  upon  the  physical,  moral, 
and  social  condition  of  mankind,  and  which  point,  as  unerringly  as 
the  barometer  the  storm,  to  that  cloudless,  peaceful,  and  universal 
revolution  w^hich  w^ill  extirpate  slavery  and  compulsory  labor  of 
every  kind  from  the  world,  banish  Crime  and  its  parents,  Igno- 
rance and  Want,  and  leave  purified  human  nature  free  to  develop 
its  heaven-linked  attributes  —  to  recover  and  reconstruct  its  muti- 
lated, degraded,  and  defiled,  yet  immortal  symmetry — are  all  pre- 
figured in  the  mind  and  page  of  Shelley. 

The  Almighty  Spirit  of  the  universe  ever  at  certain  intervals 
holds  direct  communion  with  some  elected  soul  among  men,  who 
thus  becomes  the  channel  of  correspondence  between  God  and  the 
race.  If  this  were  not  done  in  some  way  —  and  in  no  way  so 
likely  or  so  well  authenticated  as  by  prophecy  —  God  would  be  no 
God,  or  his  will  regarding  us  and  our  destiny  would  be  to  us  as  if 
he  were  not.  Such  communication  must  and  does  take  place.  No 
man  —  although  he  himself  receive  these  intimations  of  Omnipo- 
tence in  a  quite  ordinary  and  every-day  manner,  by  the  mouth  of 
surpliced  priest,  eloquent  man,  Fourierist  lecturer,  or  what  else  it 
may  —  dares  look  into  the  depth  of  his  own  soul  and  deny  that 
this  communication  from  the  Infinite  to  the  finite  immortal  is. 
These  words  of  this  communication  are  what  we  know  as  poetry, 
inspiration,  prophecy ;  and  no  man  is  at  all  a  poet  except  in  pro- 
portion as  the  light  of  inspiration  or  prophecy  has  fallen  direct  from 
heaven  into  his  brain,  making  it  conceive  with  the  seci'et  moni- 
tions of  the  Infinite  —  w^hich  must  and  will  in  the  fullness  of  time 
be  uttered  in  the  ears  of  men,  and  can  no  more  be  quenched  or 
strangled  than  the  sunbeam  after  it  has  splintered  from  its  source. 

The  poets,  then,  even  to  the  smallest,  are  all  worthy  to  be  wor- 


PREFACE.  y 

shiped  —  for  they  have  talked  with  God.  We  run  after  and 
naake  ado  with  feasts  and  fooleries  and  all  signs  of  self-degrada- 
tion whoever  has  even  seen  or  perhaps  talked  with  some  tremen- 
dous fighter,  some  sublime  assassin,  canonized  in  the  popular  cal- 
endar for  cutting  innumerable  throats  and  spreading  certain  red- 
moistened  acres  of  ground  with  human  bones  to  bleach  and  whiten 
into  an  excellent  nutrition  for  a  jaded  soil :  why,  then,  shall  we 
not  apotheosize  the  poets  —  the  angels  passing  to  and  fro  on  the 
ladder  between  us  and  heaven  ?  And  yet  how  many  of  these 
sons  of  light  have  pined  and  fainted  into  death  around  the  very 
heart  of  society,  iinnoticed  and  unnourished  by  its  life-giving  pul- 
sations !  It  is  no  worse  for  them,  a  few  years  more  or  less  dark  of 
this  chrysalis  existence  ;  but  for  you,  oh  men,  it  is  not  so  well ! 

At  the  time  —  or  a  little  before — Shelley  began  to  live,  there 
commenced  a  great  movement  throughout  the  civilized  world, 
which  even  the  wise  and  learned  of  earth  then  saw  not,  but  is  now 
just  beginning  to  be  seen  and  felt  by  the  humblest.  This  move- 
ment was  the  destiny  of  the  human  race  awaking  from  a  long  sleep, 
and  making  gigantic  strides  to  recover  the  ground  lost  in  sleeping. 
The  end  of  this  progress  is  the  universal  dream  of  poetry  and 
prophecy  made  practical  —  the  emancipation  of  man  from  the 
chains  of  the  only  real  tyrants  that  have  ever  oppressed  him,  or 
compelled  him  to  suffer  oppression  —  "Want  and  Ignorance.  When 
it  is  accomplished  —  as  accomplished  it  will  be,  as  surely  as  the 
great  heart  of  benevolent  Nature  continues  to  beat  —  no  man  shall 
be  enslaved  to  another,  to  work  his  soul  out  through  his  bones  and 
muscles,  that  he  may  get  a  little  barely  necessary  bread  with  which 
to  prolong  from  day  to  day  that  misery  he  is  forced  to  accept  in 
lieu  of  life.  When  it  is  done,  woman,  too,  shall  be  disenthralled — 
her  fine  and  exquisite  spirit  cast  abroad  into  the  light  again,  like  a 
bird  let  loose  from  its  jesse  ;  —  its  eager  wings  restored  that  it  may 
roam  free  and  unrestrained  everywhere  throughout  the  universe  of 
Thought,  seeking  and  finding  the  beautiful,  and  restoring  to  the 
brother  soul  of  man  his  needed  counterpart,  the  long-lost  moiety 
of  his  imperfect  symmetry.  When  enlightened  labor,  directed  by 
art,  and  aided  by  those  giant  arms,  pulsing  with  a  force  millions 
times  more  powerful  yet  millions  times  less  precious  than  human 
blood,  shall  have  filled  the  world  with  vast  and  abundant  products 
to  supply  all  physical  wants — when  the  whole  world  is  fed  and 
clad  out  of  a  vast  surplus  of  corn  and  clothing  produced  with 
lightest  labor  —  no  labor,  but  merely  a  pleasant  and  thrilling 
diversion — when  palatial  habitations  rise  like  exhalations  on  ev- 
ery hand,  at  the  bidding  of  any  man,  and  the  whole  face  of 
the  earth  is  strewn  vCith  redundant  luxuries,  free  to  the  hand 
but  half  out.'Jtretched  to  grasp  them  —  then  shall  the  work- weary, 


10  PREFACE. 

emaciated,  degenerate  race  of  man  have  time  to  think.  Then, 
having  cast  off'  for  ever  the  miserable,  galling  fetters  of  day- 
labor,  and  the  yet  heavy  and  clanking  chains  of  trade,  and  art, 
and  literature,  and  other  professional  serfhood,  shall  he  begin 
to  inquire  of  his  sol^l,  "  What  art  thou,  and  wherefore  thus  dost 
thou  mirror  the  stars  and  all  the  fiery  and  unfathomable  beauty  of 
heaven  ?"  —  and  he  shall  discover  that  this  soul,  so  w^eary,  so  lost 
under  mountains  of  toil,  and  care,  and  suffering,  and  privation,  is 
heaven  —  that  he  himself  is  heaven  —  and  that  every  wild  hope 
and  aspiration  gleaming  meteor-like  through  his  long  hours  of  death 
and  bondage,  was  but  a  sparkling  forth  of  that  universal  light-fluid 
in  which  God  and  all  his  creation  swims.  Of  all  these  was  this 
man  Shelley  the  seer  and  the  prophet :  and  on  the  pages  of  his 
poems  here,  these  magnificent  things,  and  many  more,  are  pic- 
tured. 

It  is  most  assuredly  one  of  those  coincidences — so  called  in  the 
imbecility  of  language  —  that  belongs  not  to  the  unmiraculous,.  that 
the  mere  instincts  of  a  young  poet,  living  a  life  of  seclusion  at  col- 
lege or  in  the  dreamy  recesses  of  dim  forests  or  shady  lakes,  far 
removed  from  even  the  reverberations  of  the  loud  jangling  world, 
should  have  conducted  to  the  same  great  and  eternal  scheme  of 
practical  social  redemption,  as  was  reached  after  years  of  laborious 
and  most  philosophic  thought,  most  patient  and  minute  investiga- 
tion, by  the  great  rouRiER.  But  it  is  nevertheless  so,  as  is  seen 
by  an  examination  of  the  principles  of  social  reform  evolved  by 
both :  and  the  fact  establishes  that  great  and  inevitable  other  fact 
so  unhappily  lost  sight  of,  buried  under  the  dead  formula;  and 
pasteboard  phraseology  of  philosophy  —  that  ideality,  poetry,  in- 
spiration, prophecy,  are  all  one  and  identical  with  immortal  truth. 
If  that  enthusiasm  of  the  intellect  which  men  call  poetry  and  im- 
agination be  not  direct  of  God  —  be  not  a  part  of  God  —  then  is  it 
nothing  and  le.ss  than  nothing —  a  painted  mist,  an  exhalation,  less 
real  and  less  sab.stantial  than  the  wreathed  air  caught  in  the  meshe.s 
of  the  morning  sunlight  thrown  horizontally  acro.ss  the  dewy 
gra.ss  and  sleeping  streams.  But  see  how  this  nothing,  this  mist, 
this  faint  aroma  of  a  pictured  shadow,  as  you  call  it,  thrills  through 
the  hearts  of  all  man  and  woman  kind  —  even  the  rudest  and  the 
humblest —  awakening  all  the  strange,  wild,  miraculous  tones  that 
have  slumbered  in  silence  there  until  thus  awakened  by  the  voice 
of  their  Creator  calling  them  from  their  profoundest  depths.  Mark 
how  a  single  syllable  of  this  poetical  rhapsody,  as  you  stigmatize 
it,  sets  the  blood  of  the  hero  on  fire,  as  if  he  drank  in  the  flaiiie-like 
sound  of  a  trumpet  —  or  how  the  delicatest  tone  of  it  expands  a 
young  heart  just  budding,  into  full  and  instantaneous  bloom,  filling 
the  infinite  soul  with  an  overwhelming  and  fragrant  liglit  that  w  ill 


PREFACE.  11 

fade  no  more  for  ever.  Or  behold  how  its  ringing  cadence  nei-ves 
the  patriot's  arm  as  with  lightning,  and  clothes  his  body  with  de- 
fiance to  i>ahi  and  hardship  — or  see  a  nation  thriUing  to  its  remo- 
test ganglia  as  the  tongue-conductor  of  yon  orator  brings  down 
this  electricity  of  mind  from  heaven,  bracing  every  one  for  mighty 
deeds,  glorious  achievements  —  rousing  in  their  deepest  souls  those 
inextinguishable  insthicts  which,  once  awakened,  never  sleep,  and 
which  lead,  surely  as  the  wounded  and  broken  night  pants  and 
glows  with  the  burden  of  the  day,  to  Hberty,  love,  and  happi- 
ness. 

And  is  this,  that  does  all  these  tilings,  nothing  ?  mere  rhyme  and 
metre  ?  Say  rather  it  is  every  iMug,  and  that  all  else  which  feels 
not  this,  or  is  hostile  to  tlie  feeling,  is  nothing  or  far  worse  than 
nothing. 

This  spirit  is  the  only  true  poetiy  ;  and  every  word  and  syllable 
of  it  is  as  precious  as  the  breath  of  God  to  the  universe.  It  is  the 
native  atmosphere  of  the  human  .soul,  and  as  it  is  plentiful  or  oth- 
erwise, is  the  soul  strong  or  drooping,  healthful,  or  weak  and  fear- 
ful as  with  the  premonitory  symptoms  of  dissolution.  What  the 
air  is  to  physical  existence,  or  the  dews  and  sunshine  to  fruits  and 
flowers,  is  this  divine  e.ssence  to  tl>e  human  soul  —  a  necessity  of 
its  very  existence.  And  as  each  flower  of  all  the  gi-aceful  and 
many-colored  tribe  has  within  its  calyx  thof^e  in.stincts  which  ab- 
sorb from  the  uncolored  light  and  air  the  portions  necessary  to 
replenish  and  prolong  its  own  individuality,  so  in  eveiy  human 
bo.som  aV)ide  those  immortal  aspirations  ever  agasp  for  the  beauti- 
ful and  the  true,  upon  which  they  may  feed  and  nourish  into  a 
glorious  maturity  the  flower  of  the  soul  within.  These  aspirations 
choked  by  selfishne.s.s,  or  smothered  under  the  hansh  hand  of  un- 
skilful and  uncongenial  training,  and  what  a  fierce,  bitter,  fiery 
struggle  witli  circumstance  and  di.sappointment  is  life !  How 
withered  all  its  green  and  tender  leave.s,  how  bla.sted  its  bright  and 
budding  flowers  !  It  is  not  alone  to  the  few  that  these  desires  and 
in.stiucts  belong,  but  to  all.  God  made  every  mau,  and  especially 
every  w^oman,  a  poet ;  and  his  w^ill,  if  unob.slructed,  would  plant 
tlie  garden  of  every  heart  with  flowers.  And  liere  begins  the 
magnificent  distinction  between  the  false  and  the  true  creeds  of 
poetry.  We  hold,  as  Shelley,  the  great  teacher  of  modern  time.s, 
trusted  and  taught,  that  if  men  would  follow  the  natural  bent  of 
their  endowments,  thus  carrying  out  the  plan  of  their  creation, 
poetry  would  become  a  universal  element ;  that  if  it  were  the  uni- 
versal element,  all  who  inspired  it  would  be  happy  —  and  thus, 
self  produced,  would  tlie  millennium  dawn  on  earth.  This  is  the 
democracy  of  poetry  —  more  practicable  than  the  simple.st  and 
driest  dogma  of  the  political  economists,  and  whose  adoption  would 


12  PREFACE. 

at  a  breath  render  all  political  economies  useless  lumber  —  without 
necessity  and  without  a  meaning. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  find  people  who  gravely  tell  us  that  there  is 
too  much  poetiy  nowadays  —  that  in  these  practical,  bustling 
times,  there  is  no  room  for  poetry,  and  romance,  and  such  stuff ! 
This  is  an  atrocious  libel  on  the  race,  and  the  blindest  misconstruc- 
tion of  the  real  state  of  human  progress.  Never  since  the  creation 
of  the  w^orld  was  there  such  a  universal  desire  for  poetiy  as  now. 
The  whole  world  is  absolutely  gasping  for  the  bright,  fresh  dreams 
of  poetry  and  romance,  which  alone  possess  the  immortal  power 
of  imbuing  all  things  with  a  rich  golden  color,  and  thus  converting 
this  mere  dusty,  common-place  world  into  a  glorious  arena  where 
the  ordinary  duties  and  contacts  of  life  become  holy  and  endowed 
with  that  which  alone  can  render  them  worthy  of  inspiring  interest 
to  immortal  souls.  Every  class  of  human  thought,  from  the  rudest 
to  the  highest  and  most  cultivated,  seeks  constantly  to  exhaust  it- 
self in  poetical  forms,  and  to  embody  its  aspirations  in  something 
connected,  ever  so  vaguely  and  dimly,  with  the  infinite,  and  by 
which  it  may  shut  out  the  humiliating  consciousness  of  the  insig- 
nificant present.  Men  are  constantly  seeking  to  forget  the  indi- 
vidual, and  rush  together  in  thousands  to  be  swayed  in  masses  by 
some  lofty  impulse  —  or  something  which  they  joyfully  accept  for 
that  —  some  grand  idea  upon  which  they  can  build  up  enthusiasm 
and  which  has  reference  to  the  comprehensive  destiny  of  their 
race.  They  are  ashamed  to  be  caught  fretting  and  pining  over 
their  mere  personal  wants  and  interests,  and  have  not  assurance 
enough  to  let  their  petty  desires  speak,  unless  they  conglomerate 
thousands  into  one,  and  thus  create  a  sort  of  massive  insignificance 
which  they  call  public  opinion,  behind  which  each  individual  can 
conceal  his  own  shamefacedness.  It  is  this  feeling  of  the  personal 
insignificance  each  httle  mind  has  of  itself  which  invests  the  so- 
much  abused  despot.  Public  Opinion,  with  all  his  fearful  powers. 
It  is  this  which  gives  currency  and  stability  to  the  frivolities  of 
fashion,  force  to  the  iron  edicts  of  custom,  and  omnipotence  to  the 
fHghtful  behests  of  mobs  :  and  at  the  same  time  it  is  this  also  that 
indicates  the  existence  of  a  spirit  which,  through  all  this  chaotic  and 
miserable  fermentative  process,  w^ill  at  last  work  out  the  most  glo- 
rious results.  Indeed,  much,  very  much,  has  it  already  accom- 
plished —  enough,  at  all  events,  to  show  that  it  is  a  good  spirit,  and 
in  short  the  only  hope  we  have  from  sinking  into  a  dead,  withered, 
irrecoverable  inanity.  Without  the  poetical  feeling  to  invest  this 
bare  and  grisly  skeleton  we  call  life  and  the  world  with  hues  and 
aspects  of  beauty  that  belong  not  to  it,  but  to  the  soul  of  man  alone, 
this  would  be  nothing  but  a  ghastly,  loathsome,  dead  world,  w^ith 
an  infinity  of  ghastly,  loathsome,  dead  skeletons  shuddering  and 


PREFACE.  13 

rattling  through  it — a  world  for  which  none  would  care  to  live, 
and  Avhich  all  would  yet  shudder  to  leave  :  for  hope  would  be  de- 
stroyed in  the  poisonous  atmosphere,  and  nothing  but  a  vague  and 
horrible  apprehension  w^ould  remain. 

Let  those,  then,  who  see  and  feel  the  existence  of  this  poetical 
feeling  —  this  inspiration  of  the  true  God  —  take  courage  and  be 
patient.  However  grotesquely  and  fearfully  distorted  the  mani- 
festations of  this  spirit  —  whether  they  write  themselves  in  the 
fantastic  characters  of  that  which  in  literary  parlance  is  termed 
poetry,  or  in  Magna  Chailas,  or  glorious  Three  Days,  or,  better 
and  best  of  all,  in  American  Revolutions  —  whatever  the  shape  it 
assumes,  rely  upon  it  this  is  the  spirit  that  is  and  has  been  from  the 
first  steadily  working  out  the  regeneration  of  the  human  race,  and 
the  salvation  of  man  in  this  world  from  all  the  dreadful  slaveries 
and  disabilities  and  wrongs  and  outrages  under  which  he  has 
groaned.  This  it  is  that  will  destroy  the  tyranny  of  rank  and  ai-ti- 
ficial  caste,  the  oppression  of  wealth,  the  hon-ible  servitude  of  bone 
and  muscle,  called  labor,  and  mocked  with  pitiful  wages  instead 
of  fair  and  just  proportion  of  product  — this  it  is  that  will  break 
up  the  iron  reign  of  superstition,  sweep  from  the  face  of  the  earth 
all  dead  and  suffocating  forms  and  poisonous  usages,  and  conduct 
mankind  by  a  gradual  yet  inevitable  and  irresistible  progres.sion 
through  all  meliorative  stages  of  wrong  and  darkness  and  suffer- 
ing, to  the  millennium  of  universal  intelligence,  liberty  and  happi- 
ness. Progression  !  It  is  the  key  to  the  great  mystery  of  the  uni- 
verse—  it  is  the  word  that  solves  the  problem  of  destiny — the 
universal  law  which  all  things,  animate  and  inanimate,  mortal  and 
immortal,  must  obey. 

But  the  most  striking  illustration  of  the  active  existence  of  this 
faculty  is  in  the  organization  of  the  human  brain  —  that  delicate 
fibre  on  whose  exquisite  fabric  the  immortal  soul  writes  her  every 
impulse  and  sensation  derived  from  her  constant  intercourse  with 
eternity,  and  which  transmits  her  energies  to  the  conscious  senses 
and  the  unconscious  nervous  system.  This  beautiful  arrangement 
is  in  itself  a  poem,  perfect  in  tone,  harmony,  configuration,  design, 
execution,  and  is  its  own  best  proof  of  the  immortal  nature  of  iho, 
spirit  it  enshrines.  Singular  is  it,  too,  that  amid  all  the  mountains 
of  metaphysics  and  philosophical  speculation  that  have  been  ex- 
pended upon  the  organization  of  the  human  mind,  a  mere  anato- 
mist should  at  length  have  hit  upon  the  true  solution  of  the  fxi'eat 
problem.  The  classification  of  the  primitive  functions  of  tlie  brain 
made  by  Gall  and  Spurzheim,  although  probably  still  delicient  in 
some  particulars,  is  nevertheless  so  strikingly  true  in  principle,  that 
I  have  yet  to  hear  of  the  man  of  thought  and  reflection  vn  ho  has 
now  the  courage  to  reject  it.     Neither  GoU  nor  Spurzheim  had  a 


14  PREFACE. 

large  endowment  of  the  poetic  facnlty  ;  yet  in  their  system  ideali- 
ty, wonder  and  supematurality  occupy  a  conspicuous,  a  leading 
place  —  and,  united  with  benevolence  and  worship,  form  all  that 
is  Godlike  in  the  affections.  Now  the  function  of  ideality,  as  ex- 
plained by  phrenology,  is  to  search  everywhere  for  the  perfect  — 
to  elicit  from  everything  that  tone  of  hidden  music  which  attests 
the  divine  origin  of  all  things,  and  is  the  key  note  of  the  harmony 
of  the  universe.  Were  there  no  perfection,  no  universal  harmony, 
this  faculty  could  not  exist ;  it  would  be  an  intellectual  anachron- 
ism too  cruel  and  too  absurd  for  contemplation.  But  that  it  does 
exist,  let  every  human  being  testify  —  exist,  too,  to  elevate  the 
groveling,  extend  and  perfect  the  frail  and  imperfect,  imbue  with 
its  own  immortal  hues  the  common-place  and  the  unholy,  lifting 
every  thing  up  into  the  heavenly  atmosphere  exhaled  by  the  soul 
of  the  poet,  and  creating  that  beauty  and  perfection  amid  which  it 
can  alone  exist.  A  being  largely  endowed  with  this  faculty,  it  is 
evident,  can  inslinctively  commit  no  wrong  —  can  commit  no  wrong 
unle.ss  goaded  thereto  by  oppression,  and  the  hatred  of  tyranny  and 
outrage  —  which  hatred  is  a  part  of  itself  To  the  truly  poetical  soul 
evil  and  wrong  are  repulsive  ;  they  are  mutilations  of  the  pure  and 
perfect  and  beautiful,  which  alone  it  loves.  As  well  could  one 
expect  the  lover  to  disfigure  his  mistress  as  the  poet  to  deform  and 
mutilate  the  harmony  and  symmetiy  of  the  moral  vvorld.  And  Jiow 
a  word  as  to  the  application  of  these  truths. 

Physiology  and  anatomy  teach  us,  and  experience  confirms  their 
teaching,  that  the  constant  exercise  of  any  particular  muscle  in  the 
body,  or  any  particular  organ  of  the  brain,  develops  and  matures 
its  strength,  increases  its  size,  and  gives  it  a  controlling  activity  in 
the  system :  and  further,  that  this  activity  may  Ije  and  is  transmit- 
ted by  the  individual  to  his  offspring:  and  that  thus,  in  a  course 
of  generations,  if  a  uniform  system  of  developing  and  exercising 
certain  organs  be  practised,  the  effect  will  become  visible  and  pal- 
pable in  the  natural  condition  of  the  whole  race.  This  is  a  law 
of  nature  well  understood  by  the  skillful  and  enlightened  agricul- 
turists of  modern  times,  who  have,  by  practising  upon  it,  reformed 
and  revolutionized  the  entire  races  of  domestic  animals.  But  our 
cultivators  and  teachers  of  the  human  animal  have  thus  far  let 
escape  them  these  all-important  truths  ;  and  the  consequence  has 
been,  tiiat  the  race  of  man,  the  noble  and  Godhke  monarch  of  cre- 
ation, has,  instead  of  improving,  actually  degenerated  into  a  lean 
meager,  dyspeptic  animal,  while  his  intellectual  and  moral  func- 
tions, gangi-ened  by  the  want  of  a  proper  physical  education,  have 
become  poisoned  by  the  pernicious  spirit  of  trade  and  selfishness, 
until  his  higher  and  holier  attributes  are  almo.st  smothered  and 
extinct. 


PREFACE.  15 

But  if  vicious  habits  of  body,  continued  through  successive  gen- 
erations, have  power  thus  to  cripple  and  deform  the  mind,  tliis  in 
its  tarn  possesses  the  w^onderful  gift  of  transmuting  its  earthly 
temple  into  the  likeness  of  its  own  immortal  beauty  :  and  reform 
in  our  condition,  to  be  effici«nt,  must  begin  in  the  mind,  whose 
elastic  and  reactive  power  will  speedily  recreate  the  body  into  its 
fitting  earthly  abode.  Here,  then,  lies  the  germ  of  the  millennium 
which  Divine  inspiration  has  promised  to  the  race  of  man  ;  and  in 
the  increa.sed  and  enlarged  activity  of  ideality  and  tlie  Godlike 
functions  of  the  brain,  perpetuated  and  transmitted  through  many 
generations,  and  eventually  writing  themselves  in  the  total  regen- 
eration of  the  race  from  the  dominion  of  the  baser  passions,  rest 
the  hopes  of  humanity.  And  the  prophetic  vision  of  the  philoso- 
pher, calmly  surveying  the  inevitable  and  glonous  future,  painted 
in  immortal  colors  upon  the  cloud  that  enshrouds  the  past,  beholds 
this  magnificent  earth  redeemed  from  the  thraldom  of  slavery',  op- 
pression, crime  and  misery,  and  inhabited  by  a  race  of  beings 
glorious  in  the  full  possession  and  exercise  of  all  their  powers,  and 
as  tliey  were  created,  in  the  image  of  God  and  a  little  below  the 
angels. 

These  are  the  mighty  truths  so  deeply  felt  by  that  great  and  most 
cruelly  persecuted  man,  whose  works,  so  unaccountably  neglected 
during  his  lifetime,  have  gradually  been  forcing  their  way  into  the 
light,  and  are  destined  to  be  acknow^ledged  in  all  their  strength 
and  beauty  by  a  world  which  they  will  have  done  so  much  to  en- 
lighten and  reform.  The  writer  of  this  brief  tribute  has  been 
enabled  in  these  introductory  pages  —  all  which  the  plan  of  the 
present  edition  will  permit  —  to  give  expression  to  but  few  of  the 
thronging  thoughts  that  fill  his  soul  from  intercourse  with  the  poet 
he  has  ventured  to  u.sher  anew  before  his  countrymen  and  the 
world.  A  few  jjassages  from  his  great  prophecy.  "  The  Revolt 
OF  Islam,"  had  been  originally  marked  for  separate  insertion  here, 
as  elucidating  the  peculiar  views  of  life,  societj'  and  human  des- 
tiny entertained  by  him,  and  their  wonderful  similitude  to  the 
doctrines  of  the  As.sociationists  —  a  class  of  men  destined  to  swell 
from  a  sect  to  a  universality,  embracing  the  whole  world  of  man 
within  its  bright  and  glorious  domain.  It  was  thought  that  these 
passages  might  here  arrest  the  attention  of  many  careless  readers 
who  seldom  get  beyond  the  preface  of  a  new  book,  and  ^vho  might 
thus  have  been  led  to  prepare  themselves  for  appreciating  a  creed 
so  lofty  and  a  prophecy  so  sublime.  But  we  have  discovered, 
since  giving  this  introduction  to  the  compositors,  that  this  plan 
must  be  abandoned  if  we  would  not  change  the  well-considered 
physiognomy  of  the  work.  We  can  therefore  only  refer  in  general 
terms  to  the  philosophical  poems.     What  is  most  remarkable  in 


16  PREFACE. 

these  is,  that  they  teach  plainly  the  doctrine  of  association,  as  dis- 
covered by  Fourier.  This  coincidence  is  another  striking  proof 
of  that  great  truth  which  is  the  basis,  the  tonic  harmony  of  all  hu- 
man progress  —  that  the  intuitions  of  the  ideal  are  the  laboriously- 
sought  conclusions  of  the  practical :  in  common  language,  that  a 
high  endowment  of  the  imaginative  faculty  is  linked  with  the  great 
Source  of  the  beautiful,  which  is  only  another  name  for  the  true. 
Thus  mathematics  and  poetry  exhaust  themselves  alike  upon  the 
wonders  and  mysteries  of  the  earth,  the  stars,  the  laws  of  that  uni- 
versal harmony  whose  notes  embrace  all  things,  both  spirit  and 
matter ;  and  thus  both  the  philosopher  and  the  poet  arrive,  although 
by  different  methods,  at  the  same  sublime  conclusions.  What 
Shelley  poured  forth  spontaneously  from  the  depths  of  his  over- 
charged soul — as  the  mocking-bird  gives  voice  to  the  music  with 
which  its  whole  being  is  throbbing  —  Fourier,  the  philo.gopher, 
slowly  and  cautiously  eliminated  from  the  phenomena  of  life,  and 
carefully  and  painfully  erected  into  a  perfect  science. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  here  to  speak  in  detail  of  the  merely  literary 
character  of  Shelley's  writings.  Such  meager  criticism  as  I  could 
offer,  in  this  shape,  would  be  too  great  an  injustice  both  to  him 
and  the  world.  His  style,  his  rhythm,  his  power  of  language  —  they 
are  the  natural  outgushing  of  a  soul  whose  very  existence  was 
melody  —  of  a  soul  lying  near  to  the  gi'eat  Source  of  harmony, 
without  which  nothing  was  made  and  nothing  lives — uttering  the 
beautiful  mysteries  which  it  saw^  and  heard.  His  imitators  —  of 
which  whole  schools  have  recently  come  into  fa.shion  —  have 
caught  the  shadow,  but  never  found  the  substance ;  and  many  a 
brilliant  poetical  reputation  might  be  made  from  the  mere  frag- 
ments and  exhalations  of  his  genius. 

The  thing  that  first  aiTested  my  attention,  in  reading  Shelley, 
w^as  the  unequaled  diversity  and  fitness  of  his  rhythm.  Coleridge 
and  Southey  and  Wordsworth  had  already  broken  up  the  arbitrai-y 
laws  of  criticism  ;  but  their  eccentricities  seem  to  me  to  be  often 
constrained,  artificial  and  forced  —  frequently  accompanied  w^ith  a 
feebleness  and  almost  grotesqueness  of  effect  which  is  the  direct 
antithesis  of  poetry.  But  Shelley's  verse  is  like  the  ever-changing 
movement  of  an  oratorio  by  one  of  the  old  masters  of  the  sublime  : 
now  grand  and  majestic  as  the  rolling  of  the  spheres  —  novs^  fiercely 
sweeping  to  the  clang  of  trumpets,  as  if  heaven  were  at  war  —  anon 
hunying  impetuously  onward  like  the  dashing  of  a  mountain  tor- 
rent, and  at  last  subsiding  into  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  brook, 
laughing  amid  bees  and  flowers,  or  listening  to  the  faiiy  warblings 
of  the  birds.  It  is  as  if  each  thought  pos.se.ssed  an  inten.seness 
which  gave  it  an  individuality  and  a  volition,  and  uttered  a  lan- 
guage new-created  by  itself  for  its  own  expression  —  yet  each  in 


PREFACE.  17 

harmony  with  the  others,  and  all  ohedient  to  the  great  purpose  of 
the  enchanter  who  had  spoken  them  into  being.  In  truth,  I  do 
not  think  that  Shelley  was  himself  aware  of  the  splendid  peculiari- 
ties of  his  rhythm,  but  I  believe  his  genius  spoke  in  spontaneous 
music. 

Next,  the  reader  of  Shelley  is  enchained,  overwhelmed,  with 
the  unconceived  gorgeousness  of  his  fancy  —  the  dazzling  splendor 
of  his  imagination  —  the  more  than  abundance  of  his  epithets,  im- 
ages and  illustrations.  Save  Shakspeare  alone,  no  poet  has  ever 
approached  our  author  in  this  respect.  There  is  not  a  page  of  his 
poetry  that  does  not  contain  riches  and  gems  enough  to  furnish 
forth  —  and  that,  too,  with  a  higher  order  of  magnificence  —  the 
whole  of  a  modern  poem.  It  is  from  the  very  lavishness  of  his 
wealth  in  this  respect  that  dry  or  unappreciative  minds  complain 
of  the  obscurity  of  Shelley.  Another  fundamental  thing  in  this 
matter  is,  that  while  other  poets  live  for  the  most  part  in  the  out- 
ward world,  and  constantly  illustrate  the  sentiments  they  wish  to 
convey  by  appeals  to  external  objects,  the  inward,  self-life  of 
Shelley  is  so  intense  that  he  illustrates  even  external  objects  by 
comparing  or  contrasting  them  with  his  own  sensations.  Godwin, 
in  his  noble  essay  on  Shelley,  alludes  to  this  striking  peculiarity, 
which  he,  strangely  enough,  calls  a  fault.  He  says  :  "  It  takes  its 
origin  from  tv^^o  peculiarities  —  from  the  exceeding  subjectivity  of 
his  mind,  and  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  his  imagination.  What  we 
mean  by  subjectivity  is,  the  disposition  to  dwell  upon  the  forms 
and  processes  of  inward  thought  and  emotion,  rather  than  upon 
those  of  the  external  world.  Shelley  was  by  no  means  deficient 
in  sensibility :  he  loved  the  external  world  ;  w^as  ever  living  in  the 
broad,  open  air,  under  the  wide  skies  ;  and  was  keenly  alive  to  the 
picturesque  and  harmonious  in  nature.  But  his  power  of  reflec- 
tion predominated  over  the  power  of  his  senses.  He  was  more  at 
home  in  the  microcosm  of  his  own  thoughts  than  in  the  larger 
world  of  nature.  He  was  ever  proceeding  from  the  centre,  that 
is,  his  own  mind,  outward  to  the  visible  universe."  As  an  illus- 
tration of  this,  but  by  no  means  the  most  striking  which  could  be 
found,  Mr.  Godwin  quotes  this  passage,  descriptive  of  the  ava- 
lanche, from  the  '  Prometheus  Unbound  :' 

" whose  mass 


Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered  there, 

Flake  after  flake  —  in  heaven-defying  minds 

As  tliought  by  lliought  is  piled,  till  some  great  truth 

Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 

Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  are  the  mountains  now." 

Here  the  avalanche  is  compared  to  the  thought,  not  the  thought  to 

the  avalanche,  which  reverses  the  usual  process  of  comparison : 

2 


18  PREFACE. 

but  we  can  not  admit  that  we  think  it  unfortunately  so  done.  Af- 
ter all,  external  objects,  to  him  who  lives  iu  the  internal,  are  no- 
thing—  mere  types  and  forms  ;  while  sensations  and  ideas  are  in 
fact  the  only  existences.  It  is  this  which  tests  the  creative  power 
of  the  poet  —  that  he  is  able  to  imbue  these  external  forms  with 
the  internal  sense,  which  is  life.  In  this  power  Shelley  has  abso- 
lutely no  equal  —  no  rival  who  at  all  approaches  him.  Let  the 
reader  turn  to  the  '  Sensitive  Plant,'  or  the  choruses  in  '  Prome- 
theus' —  or  in  fact  to  almost  any  of  the  poems  in  this  book  —  and 
our  meaning  will  at  once  be  perceived.  In  the  very  second  line 
of  the  '  Sensitive  Plant'  the  herb  becomes  a  livinc,  breathing  thing, 
for 

" the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew  I" 

and  it  closed  its  '  fan-like  leaves'  beneath  '  the  kisses  of  night.' 
Here  we  have  the  Sensitive  Plant,  the  '  young  w^inds,'  and  the 
'  night,'  already  breathing  and  acting.  In  the  next  verse,  the 
'  Spring  arose,'  and 

"  Each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest." 

And  then,  further  on, 


the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 

Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale." 


And 


" the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 

Which  unveiled  the  depths  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare." 

Afterward  we  are  told  that  the  flowers  in  this  undefiled  Para- 
dise '  like  an  infant's  awakening  eyes  shone  smiling'  to  heaven ;' 
while 

" the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 

Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root. 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver — 

"  For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower  ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower ; 
It  loves,  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full, 
It  desires  what  it  has  not  —  the  beautiful !" 

Even  the  dew  becomes  spiritualized  under  his  creative  breath  : 

"  The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers,  till  the  sun  rides  high. 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres. 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears  ;" 


PREFACE.  19 

and  then  the  whole  scene  is  disclosed  in  a  single  beam  of  softest 
light,  when 

" the  day''s  veil  fell  from  a  world  of  sleep," 

and  the  beasts  and  the  birds  and  the  insects  w^ere  drowned 

'■^  In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound  ; 
Whose  wares  never  mark  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it  —  consciousness." 

But  it  w^ill  not  do  to  give  way  to  this  humor  of  copying  and 
commenting  upon  the  beauties  of  this  peculiarity  in  the  mind  of 
Shelley.  It  is  everywhere  visible  throughout  his  works.  With 
him  or  touched  by  him  everything  glowed  with  highest  life  — 
and  more  especially  things  which  to  others  seemed  dead.  Many 
of  his  figures  are  startling  for  their  complete  opposition  to  received 
ideas  of  poetical  orthodoxy.  In  this  poem  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
he  twice  uses  the  idea  that  day  is  a  mask,  and  that  night  alone 
shows  the  reality.  One  we  have  already  quoted;  in  the  second 
part,  describing  the  '  Eve  of  this  Eden,'  he  says : 

"  She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race, 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  flushing  face 
Told,  while  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes, 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise  : 

"  As  if  some  bright  spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 
Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake  ; 
As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 
Though  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him  from  her." 

I  should  not  have  at  all  dwelt  in  detail  on  the  poetry  of  Shelley 
but  that  this  one  point,  which  is  reflected  and  refracted  upon  the 
reader  at  almost  every  line,  seems  to  require  an  interpretation  for 
some  w^ho  are  not  used  to  such  afiluence  of  creative  inspiration  in 
the  poetry  they  read.  Of  the  w^onderful  picture-making  power  of 
Shelley  —  his  daring  and  unquenchable  descriptive  energy — his 
deep  and  burning  eloquence  of  thought  and  diction  —  the  grand- 
ness  and  unity  of  his  design — the  exquisite  music  and  delicacy  of 
his  language  —  the  untold  wealth  of  his  imagery  and  epithet  —  the 
lightning  like  power  of  disclosing  the  vastest  prospect  at  a  single 
intense  glance  —  I  have  strenuously  promised  not  to  speak.  My 
great  object  has  been  to  present  the  poems  of  Shelley  in  a  shape 
which  would  render  them  generally  accessible,  and  then  to  leave 
them  to  speak  for  themselves  to  the  newly-awakened  heart  of  hu- 
manity. 

I  am  certain,  however,  the  reader  will  indulge  me  for  here  allu- 
ding to  that  most  exquisite  pant  of  the  very  soul  of  passion,  '  Lines 
to  an  Indian  Air.'     Critics  unite  in  pronouncing  it  the  most  perfect 


20  PREFACE. 

thing  ever  -writteii,  and  no  heart  can  refuse  to  melt  beneath  its 
music : 

"  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how  1  * 
To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet  I" 

And  the  next  verse.  Who  can  express  the  beauty  of  such  lines 
as  these  ? 

"  The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  ~ 
The  champak  odors  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  !" 

But  my  space  for  criticism,  as  well  as  my  time  for  lingering 
among  these  living  flowers,  is  absolutely  exhausted.  I  must  hasten 
to  a  brief  biographical  sketch  of  our  author,  in  compiling  which  I 
at  once  acknowledge  my  dependence  upon  Mrs.  Shelley  and  her 
beautiful  edition  of  her  husband's  works  published  by  Moxon  in 
London,  1839.  I  have  also  availed  myself  of  the  article  of  Mr. 
Godwin,  in  the  Democratic  Review  for  December,  1843,  and  of 
Professor  Tuckerman's  finely  appreciative  article  on  Shelley.  I 
have  had  at  my  command  various  other  sources  w^hence  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  have  drawn  much  interesting  matter  ;  but  this 
would  have  increased  the  price  of  our  volume  beyond  the  limit 
which  we  decided  as  being  best  calculated  to  insure  a  wide  circu- 
lation—  the  principal  object  of  our  labors.  Should  there  hereafter 
be  place  made  in  the  world  for  a  more  comprehensive  edition,  con- 
taining a  full  and  authentic  biography  of  Shelley,  it  will  not  be 
lacking. 

It  has  seemed  to  me  peculiarly  fitting  that  to  America  should 
have  been  reserved  the  privilege  of  giving  a  new  impulse  and  a 
stronger  appreciation  to  the  works  of  this  poet.  Mr.  Godwin,  too, 
has  expressed  this  thought.     He  says  : 

"  Mr.  Madi.son  observed  to  Harriet  Martineau,  that  it  had  been 
the  destiny  of  America  to  prove  many  things  which  were  before 
thought  impossible.  It  may  be  said,  with  equal  truth,  that  it  is  the 
destiny  of  the  same  country  to  teach  the  world  what  men  have 
been  among  its  brightest  ornaments  and  worthiest  benefactors. 
We  have  an  instance  of  what  is  to  be  done  in  this  respect,  in  the 

*  Mr.  Poe  tells  me  that  this  was  originally  written  *  God  knows  how  V 
But  I  have  not  felt  at  liberty  to  change  the  text  sanctioned  by  Mrs. 
Shelley-- whom  I  regard  as  the  evangelist  of  her  transfigured  lord. 


PREFACE.  21 

unfortanate  but  extraordinary  mau  whose  name  graces  the  head 
of  this  paper.  It  is  reserved  for  America  to  rescue  his  fame  from 
the  cold  neglect  which  it  is  the  interest  of  older  nations  to  gather 
round  it,  and  to  show  mankind,  by  her  w^arm  appreciation  of  his 
genius  and  character,  how  much  virtue  and  excellence  were  lost 
when  he  perished.  In  his  own  country,  and  in  his  own  day  and 
generation,  he  lived  an  outcast.  He  was  banished  from  the  keen 
delights  of  his  paternal  iireside  ;  he  was  expelled  the  society  of  his 
fellows  ;  his  property,  the  fruit  of  his  toil,  and  his  children,  the  off- 
spring of  his  body,  were  alike  torn  roughly  from  him  ;  his  name 
was  heaped  with  obloquy  ;  his  spirit  broken  by  persecution  ;  nor 
did  death  soften  the  ferocity  of  prejudice  which  haunted  his  life. 
His  ashes  still  slumber  far  from  his  native  land,  beneath  the  mould- 
ering w^alls  of  Rome,  and  his  memory  is  still  pursued  w^ith  reproach 
Yet  he  was  the  most  remarkable  man  of  his  time  —  a  scholar,  rich 
in  the  lore  of  all  tongues  and  ages  —  a  poet,  gifted  with  sensibility 
beyond  any  contemporary —  a  man,  of  the  loftiest  integrity  and 
self-sacrificing  worth — and  a  philanthropist,  of  the  broadest  be- 
nevolence, of  the  noblest  aspirations.  His  life  was  a  perpetual 
illustration  of  how  much  virtue  could  be  combined  with  consum- 
mate genius.  In  the  dark  history  of  the  past,  he  rises  upon  our 
vievv^  like  '  some  frail  exhalation  which  the  dawn  robes  in  its 
golden  beams,'  that,  after  struggling  awhile  with  the  mists  of  earth, 
turns  upward  again  and  mingles  with  its  native  sky. 

'  By  foreign  hands  his  dying  eyes  were  closed, 
By  foreign  hands  his  decent  limbs  composed, 
By  foreign  hands  his  humble  grave  adorned, 
By  strangers  honored,  and  by  strangers  mourned.' 

Let  the  stranger  and  the  foreigner  undertake  the  grateful  task  of 
placing  his  merits  on  their  true  basis,  and  of  assigning  him  his 
right  position  among  the  illustrious  names  of  English  litera- 
ture." 

"Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  bom  at  Field  Place,  in  the 
county  of  Sussex,  on  the  4th  of  August.  1792.  His  father  was  Sir 
Timothy  Shelley,  a  gentleman  of  property  and  high  family  distinc- 
tion, who  traced  his  remote  ancestry  to  the  chivalrous  and  poetical 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.  As  a  child,  Shelley  appears  to  have  been  deli- 
cate and  sensitive  to  a  painful  extreme,  ardent  in  his  affections,  and 
tenderly  alive  to  the  influences  of  natural  circumstances.  The  resi- 
dence of  his  friends,  far  from  the  tug  and  bustle  of  active  hfe,  amid 
the  stillness  and  beauty  of  rural  scenes,  early  impre.s.sed  him  with 
a  love  for  tranquil  and  domestic  enjoyments.  He  has  himself,  in 
the  Revolt  of  Islam,  touchingly  described  those  aspects  of  mankind 
and  nature,  which  were  the  first  to  mould  his  young  imagina- 
tion : 


22  PREFACE. 

'  The  starlight  smile  of  children,  the  sweet  looks 

Of  women,  the  fair  breast  from  which  I  fed, 
The  murmur  of  the  unreposing  ijrooks, 

And  the  green  light,  wliich  sliifting  overhead. 
Some  tangled  bower  of  vine  around  me  shed, 

The  shells  on  the  sea-sand,  and  the  wild  flowers, 
The  lamplight  through  the  rafters  cheerly  spread. 

And  on  the  twining  flax  —  in  life's  young  hours 
These  sights  and  sounds  did  nurse  my  spirit-folded  powers.' 

"  These  —  the  friends  of  his  youth,  his  mother,  the  home-circle, 
and  the  green  and  sunny  looks  of  outward  nature  —  were  the  ear- 
liest  influences  that  moved  his  sensibilities.  He  -was,  of  course, 
under  this  mild  discipline,  gentle,  studious,  warm-hearted  and  con- 
templative. The  stream  of  his  life  flowed  on,  like  the  brooks  near 
which  he  wandered  and  dreamed,  in  silent  and  cheerful  harmony. 

"  But  the  placidity  of  the  current  was  destined  soon  to  be  ruffled 
by  the  rough  w^iuds.  His  avidity  for  knowledge,  and  the  prema- 
ture growth  of  his  mind,  fitted  him,  at  an  earlier  age  than  usual,  for 
the  preparatory  studies  of  Eton.  He  was  sent  thither  accordingly; 
and  then  the  trials  of  his  life  began.  His  career,  in  that  seat  of 
learning,  was  a  series  of  disappointments.  Going  there  with  all 
the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  burning  with  a  zeal  for  truth,  and  expect- 
ing to  find  companions  willing,  like  himself,  to  devote  days  and 
nights  to  the  pursuit  of  it,  he  was  mortified  and  repelled  to  discover 
that  the  votaries  of  learning  were  filled  with  a  spirit  of  worldliness 
and  false  ambition.  This  was  the  first  revulsion  which  his  feelings 
received  ;  and  how  much  was  the  impetus  of  it  increased  when  he 
was  himself  made  the  victim  of  that  disgraceful  custom  called 
fagging,  which  compels  a  certain  c]a.ss  of  the  students  to  wait  as 
servants  upon  the  others !  Shelley  had  too  much  pride  and  inde- 
pendence to  submit  to  such  a  degradation.  He  refused  to  '  fag,' 
and  he  was  consequently  treated  with  aiTogance  and  even  despo- 
tism. His  spirit,  sensitive  as  it  was,  was  no  less  firm.  Neither 
the  cruel  vituperation  of  his  fellows,  nor  menaces  of  punishment  on 
the  part  of  his  superiors,  could  bend  a  will  whose  only  law  was 
the  self  inspired  law  of  truth.  He  rejected  an  obedience  which 
could  only  be  performed  at  the  expense  of  self-respect.  It  was  not 
long,  therefore,  before  he  was  removed  from  Eton  school,  and  after- 
ward sent  to  Oxford  college. 

"  His  appearance  at  Oxford  was  like  that  of  a  stray  beam  of  light 
amid  the  dust  and  darkness  of  an  old,  cloistered  hall.  He  was 
slight  and  fragile  of  figure,  youthful  even  among  those  who  were 
all  young,  retired  and  thoughtful  yet  enthusiastic,  pursuing  with 
eagerness  all  branches  of  science,  and  exploring,  with  the  impetu- 
osity of  first  impressions,  whatever  struck  his  fancy  as  novel  or 
useful.     But  the  college,  he  found,  was  only  a  continuation,  on  a 


PREFACE.  23 

larger  scale,  of  the  school.  The  selfishness,  the  tyranny  and  the 
falsehood  which  had  shocked  him  at  the  one,  he  soon  saw  to  be 
the  prevailing  spirit  of  the  other.  Was  it  not  natural  that  he 
should  contract  an  aversion  to  the  society  of  his  compeers  ?  Find- 
ing no  pleasure  in  the  gross  and  boisterous  enjoyments  of  those 
about  him,  he  retired  to  the  fellowship  of  books  and  his  own 
thoughts.  He  became  enamored  of  solitary  reading,  solitary  ram- 
bles, solitary  experiments.  Even  the  necessary  usages  of  disci- 
pline grew  to  be  a  restraint  to  him.  He  could  not  endure  the  ser- 
vitude of  regular  hours  and  established  forms.  A  rare  notion  of 
freedom  brought  him  into  conflict  with  masters  and  laws.  He 
was  corrected  ;  but  instead  of  being  corrected  by  gentle  methods, 
he  was  used  with  severity  and  imperiousness." 

We  now  come  to  "  his  marriage  and  separation  from  his  first 
wife.  We  speak  of  them  only  so  far  as  the  knowledge  of  them  is 
necessary  to  the  right  understanding  of  his  poetry  and  character. 
In  very  early  life  —  some  of  his  friends  say,  impelled  by  interested 
advisers  —  be  married  a  young  woman,  whose  tastes  he  soon  found 
were  altogether  unsuitable  to  his  own,  and  from  whom,  after  the 
birth  of  two  children,  he  separated.  A  few  years  subsequent  to 
this  voluntary  divorce,  the  wife  committed  suicide  ;  not,  however, 
before  Shelley  had  united  himself  to  another  woman.  This  woman 
was  one  of  illustrious  birth,  being  the  daughter  of  Mary  Wollston- 
craft  and  William  Godwin,  and  inheriting  some  measure  of  the 
splendid  abilities  of  both  parents  :  but  he  should  not  have  united 
himself  to  her  —  great  as  she  was  in  herself  and  glorious  as  were 
the  associations  that  radiated  around  her  history  —  while  his  first 
wife  lived.  It  was  the  eiTor  of  his  life.  He  never  recovered  from 
the  shock  given  by  the  distressing  mode  and  manner  of  his  first 
wife's  death.  It  tinged  with  remediless  sadness  and  remorse  the 
whole  of  his  after  life. 

"But  the  most  melancholy  part  of  this  tragedy  was  the  catastro- 
phe enacted  in  the  court  of  chancery,  under  the  infamous  presi- 
dency of  Lord  Eldon.  Our  limits  will  not  suffer  us  to  go  into  the 
legal  merits  and  bearings  of  the  atrocious  oa.se.  The  end  was,  that 
the  children  of  Shelley's  first  marriage,  and  to  whom  he  was  devo- 
tedly attached,  were  taken  from  him  on  the  ground  tliat  his  opin- 
ions rendered  him  incompetent  to  take  care  of  their  education. 
This  wicked  act  of  tyranny,  this  unredeemed  and  shamele.«s  viola- 
tion of  the  most  .sacred  ties  of  the  heart,  filled  the  cup  of  Shelley's 
wo.  He  never  forgave  the  injustice,  but  to  the  hour  of  his  death 
felt  to  his  inmost  soul  the  keen  and  cruel  pangs  of  the  blow." 

"  In  his  first  resentment  against  the  chancellor,  on  the  pa.ssing 
of  the  decree,  he  had  written  a  curse,  in  which  there  breathes,  be- 


24  PREFACE. 

side  haughty  indignation,  all  the  tenderness  of  a  father's  love,  which 
could  imagine  and  fondly  dwell  upon  its  loss  and  the  consequences. 
He  exclaims  : 

I  curse  thee  by  a  parent's  outraged  love, 
By  hopes  long  cherished  and  too  lately  lost, 

By  gentle  feelings  thou  couldst  never  prove, 
By  grief  which  thy  stern  nature  never  crost  ; 

By  those  infantine  smiles  of  happy  light 
Which  were  a  fire  within  a  stranger's  hearth, 

Quenched  even  when  kindled,  in  untimely  night. 
Hiding  the  promises  of  lovely  birth  ; 

By  those  unpractised  accents  of  young  speech 
Which  he  who  is  a  father  thought  to  frame 

To  gentlest  lore,  such  as  the  wisest  teach : 

Thou  strike  the  lyre  of  mind  '  O  grief  and  shame  ! 

By  all  the  happy  see  in  children's  growth. 

That  undeveloped  flower  of  budding  years. 
Sweetness  and  sadness  interwoven  both, 

Source  of  the  sweetest  hopes  and  saddest  fears ; 

By  all  the  days  under  a  hireling's  care 

Of  dull  constraint  and  bitter  heaviness  — 
O  wretched  ye,  if  ever  any  were. 

Sadder  than  orphans,  yet  not  fatherless  ! 


By  all  the  hate  which  checks  a  father's  love, 
By  all  the  scorn  which  kills  a  father's  care. 

By  those  most  impious  hands  that  dared  remove 
Nature's  high  bounds  —  by  thee  —  and  by  despair ; 


I  curse  thee,  though  I  hate  thee  not ;  O  slave  1 
If  thou  couldst  quench  the  earth-consuming  hell 

Of  which  thou  art  a  demon,  on  thy  grave 
This  curse  should  be  a  blessing.    Fare  thee  well ! 

"  At  one  time"  (says  Mrs.  Shelley),  "  while  the  question  Avas 
still  pending,  the  chancellor  had  said  some  words  that  seemed  to 
intimate  that  Shelley  should  not  be  permitted  the  cai'e  of  any  of 
his  children,  and  for  a  moment  he  feared  that  our  infant  son  would 
be  torn  from  us.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  resolve,  if  such  were  men- 
aced, to  abandon  country,  fortune,  every  thing,  and  to  escape  with 
his  child  ;  and  I  find  some  unfinished  stanzas  addressed  to  this  son, 
whom  afterward  we  lost  at  Rome,  written  under  the  idea  that  we 
might  suddenly  be  forced  to  cross  the  sea,  so  to  preserve  him.  This 
poem,  and  the  one  previously  quoted,  were  not  written  to  exhibit 
the  pangs  of  distress  to  the  public  ;  they  were  the  spontaneous  out- 
bursts of  a  man  who  brooded  over  his  wrongs  and  woes,  and  was 


PREFACE.  25 

impelled  to  shed  the  grace  of  his  genius  over  the  uncontrollable 
emotions  of  his  heart : 

The  billows  are  leaping  around  it, 

The  bark  is  weak  and  frail, 
The  sea  looks  black,  and  the  clouds  that  bound  it     , 

Darkly  strew  the  gale. 
Come  with  me,  thou  delightful  child, 
Come  with  me,  though  the  wave  is  wild, 
And  the  winds  are  loose,  we  must  not  stay, 
Or  the  slaves  of  the  law  may  rend  thee  away. 

Rest,  rest,  shriek  not,  thou  gentle  child  ! 

The  rocking  of  the  boat  thou  fearest. 
And  the  cold  spray  and  the  clamor  wild  ? 

There  sit  between  us  two,  thou  dearest ; 
Me  and  tliy  mother  — well  we  know 
The  storm  at  which  thou  tremblest  so, 
With  all  its  dark  and  hungry  graves, 
Less  cruel  than  the  savage  slaves 
Who  hunt  us  o'er  these  sheltering  waves. 

This  hour  will  sometime  in  thy  memory 

Be  a  dream  of  days  forgotten  ; 
We  soon  shall  dwell  by  the  azure  sea 

Of  serene  and  golden  Italy, 

Or  Greece,  the  mother  of  the  free. 
And  I  will  teach  thine  infant  tongue 
To  call  upon  those  heroes  old 
In  their  own  language,  and  will  mould 
Thy  growing  spirit  in  the  flame 
Of  Grecian  lore  ;  that  by  such  name 
A  patriot's  birthright  thou  mayst  claim. 

"  When  aftenvard  this  child  died  at  Rome,  he  wrote,  apropos 
of  the  English  burying-ground  in  that  city,  '  This  spot  is  the  re- 
pository of  a  sacred  loss,  of  which  the  yearnings  of  a  parent's  heart 
are  now  prophetic ;  he  is  rendered  immortal  by  love,  as  his  memory 
is  by  death.  My  beloved  child  is  buried  here.  I  envy  deatli  the 
body  far  less  than  the  oppressors  the  minds  of  those  whom  they 
have  torn  from  me.  The  one  can  only  kill  the  body  —  the  other 
crushes  the  affections.' " 

"  Shelley,  before  these  events,  was  living  with  his  second  wife 
on  the  continent.  He  had  already  angered  his  family,  and  been 
exiled  from  their  protection  and  sympathy.  It  is  just,  however,  to 
say  that  this  abandonment  did  not  take  place  without  attempts  on 
their  part  to  reclaim  him  from  his  '  errors.'  One  relative,  it  is  said, 
made  him  the  offer  of  an  immense  fortune  if  he  would  enter  the 
House  of  Commons,  to  sustain  the  cause  of  the  whigs.  But  he 
despised  ahke  the  money  and  the  motive,  preferring  the  life  of  an 
outcast,  true  to  his  convictions,  to  that  of  the  pampered  idol  of  a 
party,  false  to  his  own  soul.  The  spirit  which  seems  to  have  actu- 
ated him  on  this  occasion,  waa  the  spirit  of  his  whole  life.    He  held 


26  PREFACE. 

no  half-faced  fellowship  with  God  and  Mammon.  What  he  be- 
lieved, that  ho  did,  leaving  to  the  developments  of  time,  the  issues 
of  his  conduct." 

I  have  preferred  to  preserve  the  method  adopted  by  Mrs.  Shelley 
in  presenting  the  circumstances  and  conditions  under  which  each 
leading  poem  was  vi^ritten,  together  v/ith  his  own  opinion  and  es- 
timate respecting  it,  whenever  practicable.  These  exquisite  little 
sketches,  although  they  lack  the  unity  and  general  effect  of  a  sys- 
tematic biography,  yet  embrace  our  dearest  and  sweetest  remem- 
brances of  the  poet.  To  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  who  has  thus,  as  it 
w^ere,  show^n  to  us  the  pictures  which  love  Daguerreotyped  in  her 
own  heart,  we  owe  a  world  of  thanks.  Nor  have  I  felt  at  liberty 
to  change  or  comment  upon  certain  literary  opinions  and  philo- 
sophical views  embraced  in  them,  and  which  seem  to  me  eiToneous. 
My  opinions  I  have  already  stated  with  sufficient  clearness  —  nor 
can  there  be,  I  am  certain,  any  very  striking  incongiuities  between 
the  creed  of  worship  and  the  creed  of  love. 

In  arranging  the  poem.s,  I  have  adopted  the  order  of  succession 
which  seems  to  me  to  be  symmetrical,  but  it  is  quite  different  from 
that  observed  in  any  other  edition. 

The  •  Revolt  of  Islam,'  although  not  admitted  by  the  critics  to  be 
his  greatest  work,  is,  in  the  meaning  I  attach  to  poetry,  altogether 
the  most  important.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the  consummation  of  him- 
self—  the  prophecy  which  he  has  uttered  ;  and  although  it  con- 
tained still  moi-e  literary  errors  than  have  been  charged  upon  it, 
yet  in  this  view  they  would  not  detract  from  the  importance  of  it. 
But  these  errors  are,  for  the  most  part,  mere  distortions  of  the 
critics'  brains,  and  do  not  deserve  seriously  to  be  alleged  against 
a  man  who  has  shown  his  right  to  disregard  the  apparent  and  me- 
chanical laws  of  poetry  by  proving  that  he  has  held  living  com- 
munion with  the  source  whence  those  laws  have  been  attempted 
to  be  drawn.  Autumn  is  a  faulty  colorist,  by  all  the  rules  of  Di- 
lettantism —  and  yet  w^e  do  not  criticise  but  admire  her  pictures. 
Language  is  at  best  but  a  dull  instrument  for  Thought  to  work 
w^ithal ;  and  if  Shelley  has  succeeded  in  producing,  as  a  whole, 
deeper  effects  and  more  beautiful  pictures  than  others,  we  will  not 
quarrel  with  him  because  his  instinct  has  developed  rules  of  compo- 
sition of  which  our  critical  scholarship  happened  to  be  ignorant :  the 
great  bard  of  Avon  has  been  quite  annihilated  by  the  critics  several 
times  ;  and  yet  we  have  even  forgotten  their  names,  long  ago,  while 
we  every  day  bring  fresh  worship  to  his  altar  —  which  bears  not 
even  a  mark  of  all  the  critics'  well-filed  teeth  that  have  ever  nibbled 
at  its  base. 

The  '  Revolt  of  Islam'  is  written  in  twelve  cantos  of  Spenserian 
stanzas,  and  was  at  first  to  have  been  called  '  Laon  and  Cythna, 


PREFACE.  27 

or  the  Revolution  of  the  Golden  City'  —  thereby  implyini^  that  it 
was  intended  to  be  a  story  of  passion,  and  not  a  picture  of  more 
mighty  and  broadly  interesting  events.  As  he  advanced  in  his 
work,  however  —  as  the  heavy  woes  of  mankind  oppressed  and 
absorbed  his  heart  —  the  mere  individual  figures  around  whom  the 
narrative  gathers,  dw^indled  in  importance,  and  he  poured  out  the 
strength  of  his  soul  in  the  description  of  scenes  and  incidents  in- 
volving the  fates  of  multitudes  and  races.  The  poem  may  have 
lost  in  interest  as  a  narrative  by  the  change,  but  oh,  how  much  it 
has  gained  as  a  poem !  It  is  now  a  gallery  of  noble,  glowing  and 
spirit-stirring  pictures.  It  paints,  in  a  series  of  the  finest  and  bold- 
est sketches  —  sometimes  in  dim  and  silveiy  outline,  and  some- 
times in  a  broad  mass  of  black  and  white  —  the  most  interesting 
conditions  of  a  pure  mind  in  its  progress  toward  light  and  excel- 
lence, and  of  a  great  people  in  the  passage  from  slavery  to  free- 
dom. It  is  the  great  choral  hymn  of  struggling  nations.  The 
dedication  is  a  melting  prelude  addressed  to  his  wife.  The  first 
canto,  Hke  the  introduction  to  some  great  overture,  runs  over  in 
brief  but  graceful  and  airy  strains  the  grand  and  unearthly  harmo- 
nies which  are  to  compose  the  burden  of  the  music^  After  illus- 
trating in  passages  of  great  beauty  the  growth  of  a  young  mind 
in  its  aspirations  after  liberty,  and  how  the  impulses  of  a  single 
spirit  may  spread  the  impatience  of  oppression  until  it  takes  cap- 
tive and  influences  eveiy  soul,  the  poet  proceeds  at  once  to  his 
great  topic — the  awakening  of  a  whole  nation  from  degradation 
to  dignity :  the  dethronement  of  its  tyrants  ;  the  exposure  of  the 
religious  fi-auds  and  political  quackeries,  by  which  kings  and  hire- 
lings delude  the  multitude  into  quiet  subjection  ;  the  tranquil  hap- 
piness, moral  elevation  and  mutual  love  of  a  people  made  free  by 
their  ow^n  patriotic  endeavors ;  the  treachery  and  barbarism  of 
hired  soldiers ;  the  banding  together  of  despots  without  to  sustain 
the  cause  of  tyrants  at  home  ;  the  desperate  onset  of  the  armies  of 
the  allied  dynasties ;  the  cruel  murder  and  expulsion  of  the  patri- 
ots, and  the  instauration  of  despotism,  with  its  train  of  pestilence, 
famine  and  war.  But  the  poem  closes  with  prophecies  for  the 
sure  and  final  reign  of  freedom  and  virtue. 

In  this  argument,  to  use  the  phrase  of  the  older  poets,  Shelley 
had  a  high  moral  aim.  We  refer  not  merely  to  what  he  himself 
describes  as  an  attempt  "  to  enlist  the  harmony  of  metrical  language, 
ethereal  combinations  of  fancy,  and  refined  and  sudden  transitions 
of  passion  in  the  cause  of  liberality,  or  to  kindle  in  the  bosom  of  his 
readers  a  virtuous  enthusiasm  for  those  doctrines  of  liberty  and  jus- 
tice, that  faith  and  hope  in  something  good,  which  neither  violence 
nor  misrepresentation  nor  prejudice  can  ever  totally  extinguish  ;" 
but  to  that  fixed  purpose  with  which  he  has  avoided  the  obvious 


28  PREFACE. 

conclusion  that  an  ordinary  mind  would  have  given  to  the  poem, 
and  adhered  to  the  loftier  moral.  It  ends,  as  we  said,  with  the 
triumphs  of  despotism.  "What  Shelley  wished  to  teach  by  this, 
was  the  lesson,  so  necessary  in  that  age,  when  the  hopes  of  man- 
kind had  been  crushed  by  the  disastrous  events  of  the  French 
Revolution,  that  every  revolt  against  the  oppression  of  tyranny, 
that  every  struggle  for  the  lights  of  man,  though  for  the  time  it 
might  be  unsuccessful,  though  it  might  fail  in  its  resistance  of  arbi- 
trary power,  was,  in  the  end,  worth  the  effort.  It  destroyed  the 
sanctity  that  surrounded  and  shielded  the  dogmas  of  the  past ;  it 
broke  the  leaden  weight  of  authority  ;  it  kindled  fear  in  the  breast 
of  the  oppressors,  by  awakening  among  the  people  a  knowledge 
of  their  rights  ;  and  it  strengthened  the  confidence  of  men  in  each 
othei",  while  it  filled  them  with  visions  and  hopes  of  the  speedy 
prevalence  of  a  more  universal  justice  and  love.  No  lesson  could 
then  have  been  more  needed  by  the  w^orld.  The  excesses  and 
apparent  failui'e  of  the  French  people  had  frightened  even  the 
warmest  lovers  of  freedom  from  their  early  faith.  They  had 
scarcely  foreseen  in  the  outset,  that  the  weight  of  long  centuries 
of  oppression  could  not  be  throw^n  off  w^ithout  terrific  throes  and 
struggles.  At  the  first  demonstration,  therefore,  that  the  populace 
were  really  in  earnest,  the  flush  fled  from  their  faces,  and  they 
gazed  upon  the  scene  aghast  and  trembling.  They  were  seized 
with  a  panic  of  dread.  They  deprecated  vv'hat  they  had  before 
abetted  —  to  the  -wild  exultation  which  hailed  the  opening  of  the 
outbreak,  there  had  succeeded  a  feeling  of  despondency  and  gloom. 
The  people  w^ere  no  longer  the  objects  of  sympathy  and  zeal,  but 
the  victims  of  misgiving  and  distrust.  Men  who  had  once  espoused 
their  cause,  now  doubted  their  capacity  of  self-government.  An 
uneasy  suspicion  seized  them  that  principles  of  liberty  and  justice, 
having  so  signally  failed  in  one  instance,  were  not  to  be  tried  in  a 
second.  But  in  the  number  of  these  Shelley  was  not  included.  To 
him,  the  French  Revolution  was  not  a  failure.  Its  atrocities  and 
crimes,  so  far  from  diminishing  his  attachment  to  free  principles, 
cemented  and  strengthened  it.  He  saw  in  every  frantic  outrage, 
in  every  unnatural  vice,  in  the  mummeries,  the  violence  and  the 
excess,  additional  arguments  for  a  milder  and  more  benevolent 
government.  "  If  the  revolution,"  says  he,  "had  been  prosperous, 
then  misrule  and  superstition  would  lose  half  their  claims  to  our 
abhorrence,  as  fetters  which  the  captive  can  unlock  with  the  slight- 
est motion  of  his  fingers,  and  w^hich  do  not  eat  with  poisonous  rust 
into  his  soul."  The  evils  of  that  frightful  upturning  of  society 
seemed  to  him  as  they  now  seem  to  every  observant  mind,  tran- 
sient, while  the  good  was  durable.  Under  such  convictions  he 
prepared  his  poem.     Bold  as  it  is  in  many  of  the  sentiments,  it  is  a 


PREFACE.  29 

noble  monument  to  the  loftiness  of  his  aims,  the  brilliancy  of  his 
imagination,  the  wealth  of  love  in  his  heart,  and  the  breadth  and 
power  of  his  intellect.  It  is  an  armory  from  which  the  young  en- 
thusiasts of  many  generations  to  come  may  draw  their  weapons,  in 
the  assurance  that  they  are  of  tried  temper  and  exquisite  polish. 
We  have  never  read  it  without  feeling  our  souls  stirred  within  us  as 
with  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  —  it  has  enlarged  our  thoughts,  ex- 
panded and  warmed  our  affections,  quickened  our  purposes  of 
good,  and  filled  us  with  an  unquenchable  flame  of  philanthropy 
and  love.  It  is  almost  the  only  poem  that  we  can  read  at  all  sea- 
sons. In  those  darker  momentfi  when  the  sense  of  misdirected 
efforts,  or  the  exhaustion  of  disease,  or  the  dark  and  mysterious 
dread  of  some  future  ill,  weighs  like  an  incubus  upon  the  soul,  it  is 
almost  the  only  work,  after  the  gospels,  that  furnishes  nutriment 
and  solace  to  our  mind.  Then,  it  touches  us  with  a  feeling  of 
universal  sympathy.  It  awakens  us  to  the  broad,  deep  sorrows  of 
the  world,  it  quickens  languid  and  lagging  resolutions,  it  confirms 
our  faith  in  good,  and  swells  our  hearts  with  high  and  bursting 
hopes.  Oh  sweet,  incomprehensibly  sweet,  are  the  emotions  of 
intense  and  burning  enthusia.sm  that  it  kindles  !* 

"As  a  poet  (says  Mrs.  Shelley)  his  intellect  and  compositions 
were  powerfully  influenced  by  exterior  circumstances,  and  espe- 
cially by  his  place  of  abode.  He  was  very  fond  of  travehng,  and 
ill  health  increased  this  restlessness.  The  sufferings  occasioned  by 
a  cold  English  winter  made  him  pine,  especially  when  our  colder 
spring  arrived,  for  a  more  genial  climate.  In  1816  he  again  visited 
Switzerland,  and  rented  a  house  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  Gene, 
va ;  and  many  a  day,  in  cloud  or  sunshine,  was  passed  alone  in  his 
boat  —  sailing  as  the  wind  listed,  or  weltering  on  the  calm  waters. 
The  majestic  aspect  of  nature  ministered  such  thoughts  as  he  after- 
ward enwove  in  verse.  His  lines  on  the  '  Bridge  of  the  Arve,' 
and  his  '  Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty,'  were  written  at  this  time. 
Perhaps  during  this  summer  his  genius  was  checked  by  association 
with  another  poet,  whose  nature  was  utterly  dissimilar  to  his  own, 
yet  who,  in  the  poem  he  wrote  at  that  time,  gave  tokens  that  he 
shared  for  a  period  the  more  abstract  and  etherealized  inspiration 
of  Shelley .t  The  saddest  events  awaited  his  return  to  England ; 
but  such  was  his  fear  of  wounding  the  feelings  of  others  that  he 
never  expressed  the  anguish  he  felt,  and  seldom  gave  vent  to  the 
indignation  roused  by  the  persecutions  he  underwent ;  while  the 
course  of  deep  unexpressed  passion,  and  the  sense  of  injury,  en- 
gendered the  desire  to  embody  themselves  in  forms  defecated  of 
joll  the  weakness  and  evil  which  cling  to  real  life. 

*  Godwin.  t  This,  of  course,  alludes  to  Byron. — [Ed. 


30  PREFACE. 

"  He  chose  therefore  for  his  hero  a  youth  nourished  in  dreams 
of  liberty,  some  of  whose  actions  are  in  direct  opposition  to  the 
opinions  of  the  \vorld  ;  but  who  is  animated  throughout  by  an  ar- 
dent love  of  virtue,  and  a  resolution  to  confer  the  boon  of  political 
and  intellectual  freedom  on  his  fellow- creatures.  He  created  for 
this  youth  a  woman  such  as  he  delighted  to  imagine  —  full  of  en- 
thusiasm for  the  same  objects ;  and  they  both,  v^^ith  will  unvan- 
quished  and  the  deepest  sense  of  the  justice  of  their  cause,  met 
adversity  and  death.  There  exists  in  this  poem  a  memorial  of  a 
friend  of  his  youth.  The  character  of  the  old  man  who  liberates 
Laon  from  his  tow^er-prison,  and  tends  on  him  in  sickness,  is  found- 
ed on  that  of  Doctor  Lind,  who,  when  Shelley  was  at  Eton,  had 
often  stood  by  to  befriend  and  support  him,  an&  whose  name  he 
never  mentioned  without  love  and  veneration. 

"During  the  year  1817,  we  were  established  at  Marlow,  in 
Buckinghamshire.  Shelley's  choice  of  abode  was  fixed  chiefly  by 
this  town  being  at  no  great  distance  from  London,  and  its  neigh- 
borhood to  the  Thames.  The  poem  was  written  in  his  boat,  as  it 
floated  under  the  beech-groves  of  Bisham,  or  during  wanderings 
in  the  neighboring  country,  which  is  distinguished  for  peculiar 
beauty.  The  chalk  hills  break  into  cliffs  that  overhang  the  Thames, 
or  form  valleys  clothed  with  beech  ;  the  wilder  portion  of  the  coun- 
try is  rendered  beautiful  by  exuberant  vegetation  ;  and  the  culti- 
vated part  is  peculiarly  fertile.  With  all  this  wealth  of  nature 
which  either  in  the  form  of  gentlemen's  parks  or  soil  dedicated  to 
agriculture,  flourishes  around,  Marlow  was  inhabited  (I  hope  it  is 
altered  now)  by  a  very  poor  population.  The  women  are  lace- 
makers,  and  lose  their  health  by  sedentary  labor,  for  which  they 
were  very  iU  paid.  The  poor-laws  ground  to  the  dust  not  only  the 
paupers,  but  those  who  had  risen  just  above  that  state,  and  were 
obliged  to  pay  poor-rates.  The  changes  produced  by  peace  fol- 
lowing a  long  war,  and  a  bad  harvest,  brought  with  them  the  most 
heart-rending  evils  to  the  poor.  Shelley  afforded  what  alleviation 
he  could  In  the  winter,  while  bringing  out  his  poem,  he  had  a  se- 
vere attack  of  ophthalmia,  caught  v^^hile  visiting  the  poor  cottages. 
I  mention  these  things  —  for  this  minute  and  active  sj'mpathy  with 
his  fellow-creatures  gives  a  thousand  fold  interest  to  his  speculations, 
and  stamps  with  reality  his  pleadings  for  the  human  race. 

"  The  poem,  bold  in  its  opinions  and  uncompromising  in  their 
expression,  met  with  many  censures,  not  only  among  those  who 
allow  of  no  virtue  but  such  as  supports  the  cau.-e  they  espouse,  but 
even  among  those  whose  opinions  were  similar  to  his  ow^n.  I  ex- 
tract apoi-tion  of  a  letter  written  in  answer  to  one  of  these  friends; 
it  best  details  the  impulses  of  Shelley's  mind  and  his  motives :  it 
was  written  with  entire  unreserve,  and  is  therefore  a  precious 


PREFACE.  31 

monnment  of  his  own  opinion  of  his  powers,  of  the  purity  of  his 
desi^s,  and  the  ardor  with  which  he  clung,  in  adversity  and  through 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  to  views  from  which  he  believed 
the  permanent  happiness  of  mankind  must  eventually  spring  : 

" '  Marlow,  December  11,  1817. 

" '  I  have  read  and  considered  all  that  you  say  about  my  general 
powers,  and  the  particular  instance  of  the  poem  in  which  I  have 
attempted  to  develop  them.  Nothing  can  be  more  satisfactory  to 
me  than  the  interest  which  your  admonitions  express.  But  I 
think  you  are  mistaken  in  some  points  with  regard  to  the  peculiar 
nature  of  my  powers,  whatever  be  their  amount.  I  listened  with 
deference  and  self-suspicion  to  your  censures  of  '  the  Revolt  of 
Islam  ;'  but  the  productions  of  mine  which  you  commend  hold  a 
very  low^  place  in  my  own  esteem  ;  and  this  reassured  me,  in  some 
degree  at  least.  The  poem  was  produced  by  a  series  of  thoughts 
which  filled  my  mind  with  unbounded  and  sustained  enthusiasm. 
I  felt  the  precariousness  of  my  life,  and  I  engaged  in  this  task,  re- 
solved to  leave  some  record  of  myself.  Much  of  what  the  volume 
contains  was  written  with  the  same  feeling,  as  real,  though  not  so 
prophetic,  as  the  communications  of  a  dying  man.  I  never  pre- 
sumed indeed  to  consider  it  any  thing  approaching  to  faultless : 
but  when  I  considered  contemporary  productions  of  the  same  ap- 
parent pretensions,  I  own  I  was  filled  with  confidence.  I  felt  that 
it  was  in  many  respects  a  genuine  picture  of  my  own  mind.  I 
felt  that  the  sentiments  were  true,  not  assumed.  And  in  this  have 
I  long  believed  that  my  power  consists  :  in  sympathy  and  that  part 
of  the  imagination  which  relates  to  sentiment  and  contemplation. 
I  am  formed,  if  for  any  thing  not  in  common  with  the  herd  of  man- 
kind, to  apprehend  minute  and  remote  distinctions  of  feeling,  whe- 
ther relative  to  external  nature  or  the  living  beings  which  surround 
us,  and  to  communicate  the  conceptions  which  result  from  consid- 
ering either  the  moral  or  the  material  universe  as  a  whole.  Of 
course,  I  believe  these  faculties,  wliich  perhaps  comprehend  all 
that  is  sublime  in  man,  to  exist  very  imperfectly  in  my  own  mind. 
But  when  you  advert  to  my  chancery  paper,  a  cold,  forced,  unim- 
passioned,  insignificant  piece  of  cramped  and  cautious  argument — 
and  to  the  little  .scrap  about  Mandeville,  which  expressed  my  feel- 
ings indeed,  but  cost  scarcely  two  minutes'  thouglit  to  express — 
as  specimens  of  my  powers,  more  favorable  than  that  which  grew 
as  it  were  from  '  the  agony  and  bloody  sAveat'  of  intellectual  travail 
—  surely  I  must  feel  that  in  some  manner  either  I  am  mistaken  in 
believing  that  I  have  any  talent  at  all,  or  you  in  the  selection  of 
the  specimens  of  it. 

"  *  Yet,  after  all,  I  can  not  but  be  conscious,  in  much  of  what  I 


32  PREFACE. 

write,  of  an  absence  of  that  tranquillity  which  is  the  attribute  and 
accompaniment  of  power.  This  feeling  alone  would  make  your 
most  kind  and  wise  admonitions,  on  the  subject  of  the  economy  of 
intellectual  force,  valuable  to  me.  And  if  I  live,  or  if  I  see  any 
trust  in  coming  years,  doubt  not  but  that  I  shall  do  something, 
whatever  it  may  be,  which  a  serious  and  earnest  estimate  of  my 
powers  will  suggest  to  me,  and  which  will  be  in  every  respect 
accommodated  to  their  utmost  limits.'  "  Would  to  God  He  had 
permitted  this  purpose  to  have  been  accomplished  ! 
We  now  commit  this  poem  to  the  reader. 


THE   REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 

IN  TWELVE  CANTOS. 


Ocrats  Si  Bpnrdv  eQvoi  dy\aiaii   airrSfteiTOa 

Il£j3ati/£J  Tvpoi  e<r'x^aTov 
U^Sov'  vaval  J'  ovte  tte^oj  idip  Av  evpoig 
'Es  vneppopiciv  dycova  davfiaTav  hSov. 

UivS.  nv0.  X. 


PREFACE 


THE   REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 


The  poem  which  I  now  present  to  the  world  is  an  attempt  from 
which  I  scarcely  dare  to  expect  success,  and  in  which  a  writer  of  es- 
tablished fame  might  fail  without  dis^^race.  It  is  an  experiment  on 
the  temper  of  the  public  mind,  as  to  how  far  a  thirst  for  a  happier  con- 
dition of  moral  and  political  society  survives,  among  the  enlightened 
and  refined,  the  tempests  which  have  shaken  the  age  in  which  we 
live.  I  have  sought  to  enlist  the  harmony  of  metrical  language,  the 
ethereal  combinations  of  the  fancy,  the  rapid  and  subtle  transitions  of 
human  passion,  all  those  elements  which  essentially  compose  a  poem, 
in  the  cause  of  a  liberal  and  comprehensive  morality  ;  and  in  the  view 
of  kindling  within  the  bosoms  of  my  readers  a  virtuous  enthusiasm  for 
those  doctrines  of  liberty  and  justice,  that  faith  and  hope  in  something 
good,  which  neither  violence  nor  misrepresentation  nor  prejudice  cari 
ever  totally  extinguish  among  mankind 

For  this  purpose,  I  have  chosen  a  story  of  human  passion  in  its  most 
universal  character,  diversified  with  moving  and  romantic  adventures, 
and  appealing,  in  contempt  of  all  artificial  opinions  or  institutions,  to 
the  common  sympathies  of  every  human  breast.  I  have  made  no  at- 
tempt to  recommend  the  motives  which  I  would  substitute  for  those 
at  present  governing  mankind,  by  methodical  and  systematic  argu 
ment.  I  would  only  awaken  the  feelings  so  that  the  reader  should 
see  the  beauty  of  true  virtue,  and  be  incited  to  those  inquiries  which 
have  led  to  my  moral  an^l  political  creed,  and  that  of  some  of  the 
sublimest  intellects  in  the  world.  The  poem,  therefore  (with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  first  canto,  which  is  purely  introductory),  is  Jiarrative, 
not  didactic.  It  is  a  succession  of  pictures  illustrating  the  growtli  and 
progress  of  individual  mind  aspiring  after  excellence  and  devoted  to 
the  love  of  mankind  ;  its  inlluence  in  refining  and  making  pure  the 
most  daring  and  uncommon  impulses  of  the  imagination,  the  under- 
standing, and  the  senses  :  its  impatience  at  "  all  the  oppressions 
which  are  done  under  the  sun  ;"  its  tendency  to  awaken  public  hope 
and  to  enlighten  and  improve  mankind  ;  the  rapid  efl!'ects  of  the  appli- 
cation of  that  tendency  ;  the  awakening  of  an  immense  nation  from 


36  PREFACE    TO 

their  slavery  and  degradation  to  a  true  sense  of  moral  dignity  and  free- 
dom ;  tlie  bloodless  dethronement  of  their  oppressors,  and  the  unveil- 
ing of  the  religious  frauds  by  which  ttiey  had  been  deluded  into  sub- 
mission ;  the  tranquillity  of  successful  patriotism,  and  the  universal 
toleration  and  benevolence  of  true  philanthropy  ;  the  treachery  and 
barbarity  of  hired  soldiers  ;  vice  not  the  object  of  punishment  and  ha- 
tred, but  kindness  and  pity ;  the  faithlessness  of  tyrants  ;  the  confed- 
eracy of  the  rulers  of  the  world,  and  the  restoration  of  the  expelled 
dynasty  by  foreign  arms  ;  the  massacre  and  extermination  of  the  patri- 
ots, and  the  victory  of  established  power  ;  the  consequences  of  legiti- 
mate despotism  —  civil  war,  famine,  plague,  superstition,  and  an  utter 
extinction  of  the  domestic  affections  ;  the  judicial  murder  of  the  advo- 
cates of  liberty  ;  the  temporary  triumph  of  oppression,  that  secure 
earnest  of  its  final  and  inevitable  fall ;  the  transient  nature  of  igno- 
rance and  error,  and  the  eternity  of  genius  and  virtue.  Such  is  the 
series  of  dehneations  of  which  the  poem  consists.  And  if  the  lofty 
passions  with  wliich  it  has  been  my  scope  to  distinguish  this  story 
shall  not  excite  in  the  reader  a  generous  impulse,  an  ardent  thirst  for 
excellence,  an  interest  profound  and  strong,  such  as  belong  to  no 
meaner  desires  — let  not  the  failure  be  imputed  to  a  natural  unfitness 
for  human  sympathy  in  these  sublime  and  animating  themes.  It  is 
the  business  of  the  poet  to  communicate  to  others  the  pleasure  and 
the  enthusiasm  arising  out  of  those  images  and  feehngs  in  the  vivid 
presence  of  which  in  his  own  mind  consists  at  once  his  inspiration 
and  his  reward. 

The  panic  which,  like  an  epidemic  transport,  seized  upon  all  classes 
of  men  during  the  excesses  consequent  upon  the  French  Revolution, 
is  gradually  giving  place  to  sanity.  It  has  ceased  to  be  believed  that 
whole  generations  of  mankind  ought  to  consign  themselves  to  a  hope- 
less inheritance  of  ignorance  and  misery,  because  a  nation  of  men 
who  had  been  dupes  and  slaves  for  centuries  were  incapable  of  con- 
ducting themselves  with  the  wisdom  and  tranquillity  of  freemen  so 
soon  as  some  of  their  fetters  were  partially  loosened.  That  their  con- 
duct could  not  have  been  marked  by  any  other  characters  than  ferocity 
and  thouglitlessness  is  the  historical  fact  from  which  liberty  derives 
all  its  recommendations  and  falsehood  the  worst  features  of  its  de- 
formity. There  is  a  reflux  in  the  tide  of  human  things  which  bears  the 
shipwrecked  hopes  of  men  into  a  secure  haven,  after  the  storms  are 
past.     Methinks  those  who  now  live  have  survived  an  age  of  despair. 

The  French  Revolution  may  be  considered  as  one  of  those  manifes- 
tations of  a  general  state  of  feeling  among  civilized  mankind,  pro- 
duced by  a  defect  of  correspondence  between  the  knowledge  existing 
in  society  and  the  improvement  or  gradual  abolition  of  political  insti- 
tutions. The  year  1788  may  be  assumed  as  the  epoch  of  one  of  the 
most  important  crises  produced  by  this  feeling.  The  sympathies  con- 
nected with  that  event  extended  to  every  bosom.  The  most  generous 
and  amiable  natures  were  those  which  participated  the  most  exten- 
sively in  these  sympathies.  But  such  a  degree  of  unmingled  good  was 
expected  as  it  was  impossible  to  realize.  If  the  revolution  had  been 
in  every  respect  prosperous,  then  misrule  and  superstition  would  lose 
half  their  claims  to  our  abhorrence,  as  fetters  which  the  captive  can 
unlock  with  the  slightest  motion  of  his  fingers,  and  which  do  not  eat 
with  poisonous  rust  into  the  soul.  The  revulsion  occasioned  by  the 
atrocities  of  the  demagogues  and  the  re-estabh.shment  of  successive 
tyrannies  in  France  was  terrible,  and  felt  in  the  remotest  corner  of 
the  civilized  world.  Could  they  listen  to  the  plea  of  reason  who  had 
groaned  under  the  calamities  of  a  social  state,  according  to  the  pro- 
visions of  which  one  man  riots  in  luxury  while  another  famishes  for 
want  of  bread  ?  Can  he  who  the  day  before  was  a  trampled  slave, 
become  suddenly  liberal-minded,  forbearing  and  independent  ?  This 
is  the  consequence  of  the  habits  of  a  state  of  society  to  be  produced 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  37 

by  resolute  perseverance  and  indefatigable  hope,  and  long-suffering 
and  long-believing  courage,  and  the  systematic  efforts  of  generations 
of  men  of  intellect  and  virtue.  Such  is  the  lesson  which  experience 
teaches  now.  But  on  the  first  reverses  of  hope  in  the  progress  of 
French  liberty  the  sanguine  eagerness  for  good  overleaped  the  solu- 
tion of  these  questions,  and  for  a  time  extinguished  itself  in  the  unex- 
pectedness of  their  result.  Tims  many  of  the  most  ardent  and  tender- 
hearted of  the  worshipers  of  public  good  have  been  morally  ruined 
by  what  a  partial  glimpse  of  the  events  they  deplored  appeared  to 
show  as  the  melancholy  desolation  of  all  their  cherished  hopes. 
Hence  gloom  and  misanthropy  have  become  the  characteristics  of  the 
age  in  which  we  live,  the  solace  of  a  disappointment  that  uncon- 
sciously finds  relief  only  in  the  willful  exaggeration  of  its  own  despair. 
This  influence  has  tainted  the  literature  of  the  age  with  the  hopeless- 
ness of  the  minds  from  which  it  flows.  Metaphysics,*  and  inquiries 
into  moral  and  pohtical  science,  have  become  httle  else  than  vain  at- 
tempts to  revive  exploded  superstitions,  or  sophisms  like  those!  of 
Mr.  Malthus,  calculated  to  lull  the  oppressors  of  mankind  into  a  secu- 
rity of  everlasting  triumph.  Our  works  of  fiction  and  poetry  have 
been  overshadowed  by  the  same  infectious  gloom.  But  mankind  ap- 
pear to  me  to  be  emerging  from  their  trance.  I  am  aware,  methinks, 
of  a  slow,  gradual,  silent  change.  In  that  belief  I  have  composed  the 
following  poem. 

I  do  not  presume  to  enter  into  competition  with  our  greatest  con- 
temporaneous poets.  Yet  I  am  unwilling  to  tread  in  the  footsteps 
of  any  who  have  preceded  me.  I  have  sought  to  avoid  the  imitation 
of  any  style  of  language  or  versification  peculiar  to  the  original  minds 
of  which  it  is  the  character,  designing  that  even  if  what  I  have  pro- 
duced be  worthless,  it  should  still  be  properly  my  own.  Nor  have  I 
permitted  any  system  relating  to  mere  words  to  divert  the  attention 
of  the  reader  from  whatever  interest  I  may  have  succeeded  in  crea- 
ting, to  my  own  ingenuity  for  contriving  to  disgust  him  according  to 
the  rules  of  criticism.  I  have  simply  clothed  my  thoughts  in  what 
appeared  to  me  the  most  obvious  and  appropriate  language.  A  person 
famihar  with  nature  and  with  the  most  celebrated  productions  of  the 
human  mind  can  scarcely  err  in  following  the  instinct,  with  respect 
to  selection  of  language,  produced  by  that  familiarity. 

There  is  an  education  peculiarly  fitted  for  a  poet,  without  which 
genius  and  sensibility  can  hardly  fill  the  circle  of  their  capacities.  No 
education  indeed  can  entitle  to  this  appellation  a  dull  and  unobservant 
mind,  or  one,  though  neither  dull  nor  unobservant,  in  which  the  chan- 
nels of  communication  between  thought  and  expression  have  been 
obstructed  or  closed.  How  far  it  is  my  fortune  to  belong  to  either  of 
the  latter  classes,  I  can  not  know.  I  aspire  to  be  something  better. 
The  circumstances  of  my  accidental  education  have  been  favorable 
to  this  ambition.  I  have  been  familiar  from  boyhood  with  mountains 
and  lakes,  and  the  sea,  and  the  solitude  of  forests  :  Danger,  which 
sports  upon  the  brink  of  precipices,  has  been  my  playmate.  I  have 
trodden  the  glaciers  of  the  Alps,  and  lived  under  the  eye  of  Mont 
Blanc.  I  have  been  a  wanderer  among  distant  fields.  I  have  sailed 
down  mighty  rivers,  and  seen  the  sun  rise  and  set,  and  the  stars  come 
forth,  while  I  have  sailed  night  and  day  down  a  rapid  stream  among 
mountains.  I  have  seen  populous  cities,  and  have  watched  the  pas- 
sions which  rise  and  spread,  and  sink  and  change,  among  assembled 

*  I  ought  to  except  Sir  W.  Drummond's  "  Academical  Questions;"  a  volume  of  very 
acute  and  powerful  metaphysical  criticism. 

t  It  is  reniaikable,  aj  a  symptom  of  the  reviral  of  public  hope,  that  Mr.  Malthus  hao 
assigned,  in  the  later  editions  of  hia  work,  an  indefinite  dominion  to  moral  restraint  ovei 
the  principle  of  population.  This  concession  answers  all  the  inferences  from  his  doctrine 
unfavorable  to  human  improvement,  and  reduces  the  "  Essay  on  Population"  to  a  ciiui 
raentary  illustrative  of  the  unanswerableness  of  *'  Political  Justice." 


38  PREFACE    TO 

multitudes  of  men.  I  have  seen  the  theatre  of  the  more  visible  rav- 
ages of  tyranny  and  vv^ar,  cities  and  villages  reduced  to  scattered 
groups  of  black  and  roofless  houses,  and  the  naked  inhabitants  sitting 
famished  upon  their  desolate  thresholds.  I  have  conversed  with  living 
men  of  genius.  The  poetry  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  and  modern 
Italy,  and  our  own  country,  has  been  to  me  like  external  nature,  a 
passion  and  an  enjoyment.  Such  are  the  sources  from  which  the  ma- 
terials for  the  imagery  of  my  poem  have  been  drawn.  I  have  consid- 
ered poetry  in  its  most  comprehensive  sense,  and  have  read  the  poets 
and  the  historians  and  the  metaphysicians*  whose  writings  have  been 
accessible  to  me,  and  have  looked  upon  the  beautiful  and  majestic 
scenery  of  the  earth  as  common  sources  of  those  elements  which  it  is 
the  province  of  the  poet  to  embody  and  combine.  Yet  the  experience 
and  the  feelings  to  which  I  refer  do  not  in  themselves  constitute  men 
poets,  but  only  prepare  them  to  be  the  auditors  of  those  who  are.  How 
far  I  shall  be  found  to  possess  that  more  essential  attribute  of  poetry  — 
the  power  of  awakening  in  others  sensations  like  those  which  animate 
my  own  bosom  —is  that  which,  to  speak  sincerely,  I  know  not:  and 
which,  with  an  acquiescent  and  contented  spirit,  I  expect  to  be  taught 
by  the  effect  which  I  shall  produce  upon  those  whom  1  now  address. 

I  have  avoided,  as  1  have  said  before,  the  imitation  of  any  contem- 
porary style.  But  there  must  be  a  resemblance  which  does  not  de- 
pend upon  their  own  will,  between  all  the  writers  of  any  particular 
age.  They  can  not  escape  from  subjection  to  a  common  influence 
which  arises  out  of  an  infinite  combination  of  circumstances  belonging 
to  the  times  in  which  they  live,  though  each  is  in  a  degree  the  author 
of  the  very  influence  by  which  his  being  is  thus  pervaded.  Thus,  the 
tragic  poets  of  tiie  age  of  Pericles  ;  the  Italian  revivers  of  ancient 
learning  ;  those  mighty  intellects  of  our  own  country  that  succeeded 
the  Reformation,  the  translators  of  tlie  Bible,  Shakspeare,  Spenser, 
the  dramatists  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  Lord  Bacon  ;t  the  colder 
spirits  of  the  interval  that  succeeded —  all  resemble  each  other,  and 
differ  from  every  other  in  their  several  classes.  In  this  view  of  things. 
Ford  can  no  more  be  called  the  imitator  of  Shakspeare,  than  Shak- 
speare the  imitator  of  Ford.  There  were  perhaps  few  other  points  of 
resemblance  between  these  two  men  than  that  which  the  universal 
and  inevitable  influence  of  their  age  produced.  And  this  is  an  influ- 
ence which  neither  the  meanest  scribbler  nor  the  sublimest  genius  of 
any  era  can  escape,  and  which  I  have  not  attempted  to  escape. 

1  have  adopted  the  stanza  of  Spenser  (a  measure  inexpressibly  beau- 
tiful), not  because  I  consider  it  a  finer  model  of  poetical  harmony  than 
the  blank  verse  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  but  because  in  the  latter 
there  is  no  shelter  for  mediocrity:  you  must  either  succeed  or  fail. 
This  perhaps  an  aspiring  spirit  should  desire.  But  I  was  enticed  also 
by  the  brilliancy  and  magnificence  of  sound  which  a  mind  that  has 
been  nourished  upon  musical  thoughts  can  produce  by  a  just  and  har- 
monious arrangement  of  the  pauses  of  this  measure.  Yet  there  will 
be  found  some  instances  where  I  have  completely  failed  in  this  at- 
tempt, and  one,  which  I  here  request  the  reader  to  consider  as  an 
erratum,  where  there  is  left  most  inadvertently  an  alexandrine  in  the 
middle  of  a  stanza. 

But  in  this,  as  in  every  other  respect,  I  have  written  fearlessly.  It 
is  the  misfortune  of  this  age  that  its  writers,  too  thoughtless  of  im- 
mortality, are  exquisitely  sensible  to  temporary  praise  or  blame.  They 
write  with  the  fear  of  reviews  before  their  eyes.  This  system  of  criti- 
cism sprang  up  in  that  torpid  interval  when  poetry  was  not.     Poetry, 

*  In  this  sense  there  may  be  such  a  thing  as  perfectibility  in  works  of  fiction,  notwith 
standing  the  concession  often  made  by  the  advocates  of  human  improvement  that  perfec 
tibiUty  IS  a  terra  appUcable  only  to  science. 

t  Milton  stands  alone  in  the  age  which  he  illumined. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  39 

and  the  art  which  professes  to  regulate  and  limit  its  powers,  can  not 
subsist  together.  Longinus  could  not  have  been  the  contemporary 
of  Homer,  nor  Boileau  of  Horace.  Yet  this  species  of  criticism  never 
presumed  to  assert  an  understanding  of  its  own  :  it  has  always,  unlike 
true  science,  followed,  not  preceded  the  opinion  of  mankind,  and 
would  even  now  bribe  with  worthless  adulation  some  of  our  greatest 
poets  to  impose  gratuitous  fetters  on  their  own  imaginations,  and  be- 
come unconscious  accomplices  in  the  daily  murder  of  all  genius  either 
not  so  aspiring  or  not  so  fortunate  as  their  own.  I  have  sought  there- 
fore to  write,  as  [  believe  that  Homer,  Shakspeare  and  Milton  wrote, 
with  an  utter  disregard  of  anonymous  censure.  I  am  certain  that  cal- 
umny and  misrepresentation,  though  it  may  move  me  to  compassion, 
can  not  disturb  my  peace.  1  shall  understand  the  expressive  silence 
of  those  sagacious  enemies  who  dare  not  trust  themselves  to  speak. 
I  shall  endeavor  to  extract  from  the  midst  of  insult  and  contempt  and 
maledictions  those  admonitions  which  may  tend  to  correct  whatever 
imperfections  such  censurers  may  discover  in  this  my  first  serious  ap- 
peal to  the  public.  If  certain  critics  were  as  clear-sighted  as  they  are 
malignant,  how  great  would  be  the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  their 
virulent  writings  !  As  it  is,  I  fear  I  shall  be  malicious  enough  to  be 
amused  with  their  paltry  tricks  and  lame  invectives.  Should  the 
public  judge  that  my  composition  is  worthless,  I  shall  indeed  bow  be- 
fore that  tribunal  from  which  Milton  received  his  crown  of  immortali- 
ty, and  shall  seek  to  gather,  if  I  live,  strength  from  that  defeat,  which 
may  nerve  me  to  some  new  enterprise  of  thought  which  may  not  be 
worthless.  I  can  not  conceive  that  Lucretius,  when  he  meditated 
that  poem  whose  doctrines  are  yet  the  basis  of  our  metaphysical 
knowledge,  and  whose  eloquence  has  been  the  wonder  of  mankind, 
wrote  in  awe  of  such  censure  as  the  hired  sophists  of  the  impure  and 
superstitious  noblemen  of  Rome  might  affix  to  what  he  should  pro- 
duce It  was  at  the  period  when  Greece  was  led  captive,  and  Asia 
made  trilmtary  to  the  republic,  fast  verging  itself  to  slavery  and  ruin, 
that  a  multitude  of  Syrian  captives,  bigoted  to  the  worship  of  their 
obscene  Ashtaroth,  and  the  unworthy  successors  of  Socrates  and 
Zeno,  found  there  a  precarious  subsistence  by  administering,  under 
the  name  of  freedmen,  to  the  vices  and  vanities  of  the  great.  These 
wretched  men  were  skilled  to  plead,  with  a  superficial  but  plausible 
set  of  sophisms,  in  favor  of  that  contempt  for  virtue  which  is  the  por- 
tion of  slaves,  and  that  faith  in  portents,  the  most  fatal  substitute  for 
benevolence  in  the  imaginations  of  men,  which,  arising  from  the  en- 
slaved communities  of  the  East,  then  first  began  to  overwhelm  the 
western  nations  in  its  stream.  Were  these  the  kind  of  men  whose 
disapprobation  the  wise  and  lofty-minded  Lucretius  should  have  re- 
garded with  a  salutary  awe  1  The  latest  and  perhaps  the  meanest  of 
those  who  follow  in  his  footsteps  would  disdain  to  hold  life  on  such 
conditions. 

The  poem  now  presented  to  the  public  occupied  little  more  than  six 
months  in  the  composition.  That  period  has  been  devoted  to  the  task 
with  unremitting  ardor  and  enthusiasm.  I  have  exercised  a  watchful 
and  earnest  criticism  on  my  work  as  it  grew  under  my  hands.  I  would 
willingly  have  sent  it  forth  to  the  world  with  that  perfection  which 
long  labor  and  revision  is  said  to  bestow.  But  I  found  that  if  I  should 
gain  something  in  exactness  by  this  method,  I  might  lose  much  of  the 
newness  and  energy  of  imagery  and  language  as  it  flowed  ire sh  from 
my  mind.  And  although  the  mere  composition  occupied  no  more  than 
six  months,  the  thoughts  thus  arranged  were  slowly  gathered  in  as 
many  years. 

I  trust  that  the  reader  will  carefully  distinguish  between  those 
opinions  which  have  a  dramatic  propriety  in  reference  to  the  charac- 
ters which  they  are  designed  to  elucidate,  and  such  as  a;e  properly 
my  own.    The  erroneous  and  degrading  idea  which  men  have  con- 


40  PREFACE. 

ceived  of  a  Supreme  Being,  for  instance,  is  spoken  against,  but  not 
the  Supreme  Being  itself.  The  behef  which  some  superstitious  per- 
sons whom  I  liave  brought  upon  the  stage  entertain  of  the  Deity,  as 
injurious  to  the  character  of  his  benevolence,  is  widely  different  from 
my  own.  In  recommending  also  a  great  and  important  change  in  the 
spirit  which  animates  the  social  institutions  of  mankind,  I  have  avoid- 
ed all  flattery  to  those  violent  and  malignant  passions  of  our  nature 
which  are  ever  on  the  watch  to  mingle  with  and  to  alloy  the  most 
beneficial  innovations.  There  is  no  quarter  given  to  revenge  or  envy 
or  prejudice.  Love  is  celebrated  everywhere  as  the  sole  law  which 
should  govern  the  moral  world. 


DEDICATION. 


There  is  no  danger  to  a  Man,  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is  :  there's  not  any  law- 
Exceeds  his  knowledge  ;  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law. 

Chapman. 

TO    MARY 


So  now  my  summer-task  is  ended,  Mary, 
And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's  home  ; 
As  to  his  Q-ueen  some  victor  Knight  of  Faery, 
Earning  briglit  spoils  for  her  enchanted  dome*; 
Nor  thou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 
If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom, 
Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite 
With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  Child  of  love  and  light. 


The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many  an  hour 
Is  ended  —  and  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet! 
No  longer  vv^here  the  woods  to  frame  a  bower 
With  interlaced  branches  mix  and  meet, 
Or  where  with  sound  like  many  voices  sweet, 
Water-falls  leap  among  w^ild  islands  green, 
Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone  retreat 
Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I  be  seen : 
But  beside  thee,  where  still  my  heart  has  ever  been. 


Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  Friend,  when  first 
The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth  did  pass. 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep  :  a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was. 


42  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 
And  wept,  1  knew  not  w^hy  :  until  there  rose 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices,  that,  alas  ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes  — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 


And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around. 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes. 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny  ground - 
So  "without  shame,  I  spake  :  "  1  will  be  wise. 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."     i  then  controlled 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek  and  bold. 


And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore, 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armor  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  w^ar  among  mankind  ; 
Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened  more  and  more 
Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I  pined. 


Alas,  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  vi^ho  seek  all  sympathies  in  one  !  — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain  ;  then  black  despair. 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone  :  — 
Yet  never  found  I  one,  not  false  to  me, 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy  stone 
Winch  crushed  and  withered  mine,  that  could  not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  until  revived  by  thee. 

VII. 

Thou  Friend,  whose  presence  on  my  wintry  heart 
Fell,  like  bright  Spring  upon  some  herbless  plain, 
How  beautiful  and  calm  and  free  thou  wert 
In  thy  young  wisdom,  when  the  mortal  chain 
Of  Custom  thou  Widst  burst  and  rend  in  twain, 
And  walked  as  free  as  light  the  clouds  among, 
Which  many  an  envious  slave  then  breathed  in  vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit  sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had  begirt  it  long. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  43 


No  more  alone  through  the  woiid's  wilderness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 
I  journeyed  now  :  no  more  companionless, 
Where  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  content 
"When  Poverty  can  blight  the  just  and  good, 
When  Infamy  dares  mock  the  innocent, 
And  cherished  friends  turn  w^ith  the  multitude 
To  ti'ample :  this  was  ours,  and  we  unshaken  stood  ! 


Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour. 
And  with  inconstant  fortune,  friends  return  ; 
Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge  and  the  power 
Which  says :  Let  scorn  be  not  repaid  with  scorn. 
And  from  thy  side  4wo  gentle  babes  are  bom 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus  are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming  mom  ; 
And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been  to  me 
The  parents  of  the  Soug  I  consecrate  to  thee. 


Is  it.  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 
But  strike  the  prelude  of  a  loftier   strain? 
Or,  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit  lingers 
Soon  pause  in  silence,  ne'er  to  sound  again, 
Though  it  might  shake  tlie  Anarch  Custom's  reign, 
And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's  own  sway 
Holier  than  was  Amphion's  ?     I  would  fain 
Reply  in  hope — but  I  am  worn  away, 
And  Death  and  Love  are  yet  contending  for  their  prey. 


And  what  art  thou  ?  I  know,  but  dare  not  speak  ; 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtful  cheek, 
And  in  the  light  thine  ample  forehead  wears. 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy  tears, 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whispered,  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears : 
And  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  soul  I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 


They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth, 
Of  glorious  parents,  thou  aspiring  Chilci. 
1  wonder  not  —  for  One  then  left  this  earth 
Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild, 


44  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance  undefiled 
Of  its  departing  glory  ;  still  her  fame 
Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests  dark  and  wild 
"Which  shake  these  latter  days  ;  and  thou  canst  claim 
The  shelter,  from  thy  Sire,  of  an  immortal  name. 


One  voice  came  forth  from  many  a  mighty  spirit, 
Which  was  the  echo  of  three  thousand  years  ; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to  hear  it, 
As  some  lone  man  w^ho  in  a  desert  hears 
The  music  of  his  home :  unwonted  fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race. 
And  Faith,  and  Custom,  and  low-thoughted  cares, 
Like  thunder-stricken  dragons,  for  a  space 
Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and  dwelling-place. 


Truth's  deathless  voice  pauses  among  mankind ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my  cry — 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fury  blind 
On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them  —  thou  and  I, 
Sweet  friend  !  can  look  from  our  tranquillity 
Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous  night — 
Tw^o  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are  passing  by 
Whi<?h  wrap  them  from  the  foundering  seaman's  sight, 
That  bum  from  year  to  year  with  unextinguished  light. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM, 


CANTO  I. 


When  the  last  hope  of  trampled  France  had  failed 
Like  a  brief  dream  of  unremaining  glory, 
From  visions  of  despair  I  rose,  and  scaled 
The  peak  of  an  aerial  promontory. 
Whose  caverned  base  with  the  vexed  surge  was  hoary 
And  saw  the  golden  dawn  break  forth,  and  waken 
Each  cloud,  and  every  wave  :  but  transitory 
The  calm  :  for  sudden,  the  firm  earth  was  shaken, 
As  if  by  the  last  wreck  its  firame  were  overtaken. 


So  as  I  stood,  one  blast  of  muttering  thunder 
Burst  in  far  peals  along  the  waveless  deep, 
When,  gathering  fast,  around,  above,  and  under, 
Long  trains  of  tremulous  mist  began  to  creep, 
Until  their  complicating  lines  did  steep 
The  orient  sun  in  shadow  :  not  a  sound 
Was  heard ;  one  horrible  repose  did  keep 
The  forests  and  the  floods,  and  all  around 
Darkness  more  dread  than  night  was  poured  upon  the  ground. 


Hark !  'tis  the  rushing  of  a  wind  that  sweeps 
Earth  and  the  ocean.     See  !  the  lightnings  yawn 
Deluging  Heaven  with  fire,  and  the  lashed  deeps 
Glitter  and  boil  beneath  :  it  rages  on, 
One  mighty  stream,  whirlwind  and  waves  upthrown, 
Lightning,  and  hail,  and  darkness  eddying  by. 
There  is  a  pause  —  the  sea-birds,  that  were  gone 
Into  their  caves  to  shriek,  come  forth,  to  spy 
What  calm  has  faU'u  on  earth,  what  light  is  in  the  sky. 


46  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


For,  where  the  irresistible  storm  had  cloven 
That  fearful  darkness,  the  blue  sky  was  seen 
Fretted  with  many  a  fair  cloud  interwoven 
Most  delicately,  and  the  ocean  green, 
Beneath  that  opening  spot  of  blue  serene, 
duivered  like  burning  emerald  :  calm  was  spread 
On  all  below  ;  but  far  on  high,  between 
Earth  and  the  upper  air,  the  vast  clouds  fled, 
Countless  and  ew^ift  as  leaves  on  autumn's  tempest  shed 


For  ever,  as  the  war  became  more  fierce 
Betv^een  the  whirlwinds  and  the  rack  on  high. 
That  spot  grew  more  serene ;  blue  light  did  pierce 
The  woof  of  those  white  clouds,  which  seemed  to  lie 
Far,  deep,  and  motionless  :  while  through  the  sky 
The  pallid  semicircle  of  the  moon 
Passed  on,  in  slov^^  and  moving  majesty ; 
Its  upper  horn  arrayed  in  mists,  which  soon 
But  slowly  fled,  like  dew  beneath  the  beams  of  noon. 


I  could  not  choose  but  gaze  ;  a  fascination 
Dwelt  in  that  moon,  and  sky.  and  clouds,  which  drew 
My  fancy  tbither,  and  in  expectation 
Of  what  I  knew  not,  I  remained  :  the  hue 
Of  the  white  moon,  amid  that  heaven  so  blue, 
Suddenly  stained  with  shadow  did  appear  ; 
A  speck,  a  cloud,  a  shape,  approaching  .grew. 
Like  a  great  ship  in  the  sun's  sinking  sphere 
Beheld  afar  at  sea,  and  swift  it  came  anear. 


Even  like  a  bark,  v^^hich  from  a  chasm  of  mountains. 
Dark,  vast,  and  overhanging,  on  a  river. 
Which  there  collects  the  strength  of  all  its  fountains, 
Comes  forth,  whilst  with  the  speed,  its  frame  doth  quiver, 
''ails,  oars,  and  stream,  tending  to  one  endeavor; 
60,  from  that  chasm  of  light  a  winged  Form 
On  all  the  winds  of  heaven  approaching  ever 
Floated,  dilating  as  it  came  :  the  storm 
Pursued  it  with  fierce  blasts  and  lightnings  swift  and  warm. 


A  course  precipitous,  of  dizzy  speed, 

Suspending  thought  and  breath  ;  a  monstrous  sight ! 

For  in  the  air  do  I  behold  indeed 

An  Eagle  and  a  Serpent  wreathed  in  fight:  — 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

And  now  relaxing  its  impetuous  flight, 
Before  the  aerial  rock  on  which  I  stood, 
The  Eagle,  hovering,  wheeled  to  left  and  right, 
And  hung  with  liugeriug  wings  over  the  flood. 
And  stai-tled  with  its  yells  the  wide  air's  sohtude. 


A  shaft  of  light  upon  its  wings  descended, 
And  every  golden  feather  gleamed  therein — 
Feather  and  scale  inextricably  blended. 
The  Serpent's  mailed  and  many-colored  skin 
Shone  through  the  plumes  ;  its' coils  were  twined  within 
By  many  a  swollen  and  knotted  fold,  and  high 
And  far,  the  neck  receding  lithe  and  thin, 
Sustained  a  crested  head,  which  warily 
Shifted  and  glanced  before  the  Eagle's  steadfast  eye. 


Around,  around,  in  ceaseless  circles  wheeling 
"With  clang  of  wings  and  scream,  the  Eagle  sailed 
Incessantly  —  sometimes  on  high  concealing 
Its  lessening  orbs,  sometimes  as  if  it  failed. 
Drooped  through  the  air  ;  and  still  it  shrieked  and  wailed, 
And  casting  back  its  eager  head,  with  beak 
And  talon  unremittingly  assailed 
The  wreathed  Serpent,  who  did  ever  seek 
Upon  his  enemy's  heart  a  mortal  wound  to  wreak. 


What  life,  what  power,  was  kindled  and  arose 
Within  the  sphere  of  that  appalling  fray  ! 
For,  from  the  encounter  of  those  wondrous  foes, 
A  vapor  like  the  sea's  suspended  spray 
Hung  gathered :  in  the  void  air,  far  away, 
Floated  the  shattered  plumes;  bright  scales  did  leap. 
Where'er  the  Eagle's  talons  made  their  way, 
Like  sparks  into  the  darkness  —  as  they  sweep. 
Blood  stains  the  snowy  foam  of  the  tumultuous  deep. 


Swift  chances  in  that  combat  —  many  a  check. 
And  many  a  change,  a  dark  and  wild  turmoil; 
Sometimes  the  Snake  around  his  enemy's  neck 
Locked  in  stifle  rings  his  adamantine  coil. 
Until  the  Eagle,  faint  with  pain  and  toil. 
Remitted  his  strong  flight,  and  near  the  sea 
Languidly  fluttered,  hopeless  so  to  foil 
His  adversary,  who  then  reared  on  high 
His  red  and  burning  crest,  radiant  with  victory. 


47 


48  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Then  on  the  white  edge  of  the  bursting  surge, 
"Where  they  had  sunk  together,  would  the  Snake 
Relax  his  suffocating  grasp  and  scourge 
The  wind  with  his  wild  writhings  ;  for  to  break 
That  chain  of  torment,  the  vast  bird  would  shake 
The  strength  of  his  unconquerable  wings 
As  in  despair,  and  v^ath  his  sinewy  neck 
Dissolve  in  sudden  shock  those  linked  rings, 
Then  soar  —  as  swift  as  smoke  from  a  volcano  springs. 


Wile  baffled  wile,  and  strength  encountered  strength, 
Thus  long,  but  unprevailing  :  the  event 
Of  that  portentous  fight  appeared  at  length  : 
Until  the  lamp  of  day  was  almost  spent 
It  had  endured,  when  lifeless,  stark,  and  rent, 
Hung  high  that  mighty  Serpent,  and  at  last 
Fell  to  the  sea,  while  o'er  the  continent. 
With  clang  of  wings  and  scream  the  Eagle  past, 
Heavily  borne  away  on  the  exhausted  blast. 


j^  And  with  it  fled  the  tempest,  so  that  ocean 
^  And  earth  and  sky  shone  through  the  atmosphere — 
Only,  it  was  strange  to  see  the  red  commotion 
Of  waves  like  mountains  o'er  the  sinking  sphere 
Of  sun-set  sweep,  and  their  fierce  roar  to  hear 
Amid  the  calm :  down  the  steep  path  I  wound 
To  the  sea-shore  —  the  evening  was  most  clear 
And  beautiful,  and  there  the  sea  I  found 
Calm  as  a  cradled  child  in  dreamless  slumber  bound. 


There  was  a  Woman,  beautiful  as  morning, 
Sitting  beneath  the  rocks,  upon  the  sand 
Of  the  waste  sea  —  fair  as  one  flower  adorning 
An  icy  wilderness  —  each  delicate  hand 
Lay  crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and  the  band 
Of  her  dark  hair  had  fallen,  and  so  she  sate 
Looking  upon  the  waves  ;  on  the  bare  strand 
Upon  the  sea-mark  a  small  boat  did  wait. 
Fair  as  herself,  like  Love  by  Hope  left  desolate. 


It  seemed  that  this  fair  Shape  had  looked  upon 
That  unimaginable  fight,  and  now 
That  her  sweet  eyes  were  weary  of  the  san, 
As  brightly  it  illustrated  her  woe ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  49 

For  in  the  tears  whicli  silently  to  flow 
Paused  not,  its  lustre  hung  :  she  watching  aye 
The  foam-wreaths  which  the  faint  tide  wove  helow 
Upon  the  spangled  sands,  groaned  heavily, 
And  after  every  groan  looked  up  over  the  sea. 


And  when  she  saw  the  wounded  Serpent  make 
His  path  between  the  waves,  her  lips  grew  pale, 
Parted  and  quivered  ;  the  tears  ceased  to  break 
Prom  her  immovable  eyes  ;  no  voice  of  wail 
Escaped  her ;  but  she  rose,  and  on  the  gale 
Loosening  her  star-bright  robe  and  shadowy  hair, 
Poured  forth  her  voice  ;  the  caverns  of  the  vale 
That  opened  to  the  ocean,  caught  it  there. 
And  filled  with  silver  sounds  the  overflowing  air. 


She  spake  in  language  whose  strange  melody 
Might  not  belong  to  earth.     I  heard,  alone, 
What  made  its  music  more  melodious  be, 
The  pity  and  the  love  of  every  tone  ; 
But  to  the  Snake  those  accents  sweet  were  known. 
His  native  tongue  and  hers ;  nor  did  he  beat 
The  hoar  spray  idly  then,  but  w^inding  on 
Through  the  green  shadows  of  the  waves  that  meet 
Near  to  the  shore,  did  pause  beside  her  snowy  feet. 


Then  on  the  sands  the  Woman  sate  again, 
And  wept  and  clasped  her  hands,  and  all  between, 
Renewed  the  unintelligible  strain 
Of  her  melodious  voice  and  eloquent  mien  ; 
And  she  unveiled  her  bosom,  and  the  green 
And  glancing  shadows  of  the  sea  did  play 
O'er  its  marmoreal  depth  :  one  moment  seen, 
For  ere  the  next,  the  Serpent  did  obey 
Her  voice,  and,  coiled  in  rest,  in  her  embrace  it  lay. 


Then  she  arose,  and  smiled  on  me  with  eyes 
Serene  yet  sorrowing,  like  that  planet  fair, 
While  yet  the  day-light  lingereth  in  the  skies. 
"Which  cleaves  with  arrowy  beams  the  dark-red  air, 
And  said  :  To  grieve  is  wise,  but  the  despair 
Was  weak  and  vain  which  led  thee  here  from  sleep 
This  shall  thou  know,  and  more,  if  thou  dost  dare 
With  me  and  with  this  Serpent,  o'er  the  deep, 
A  voyage  divine  and  strange,  companionship  to  keep. 
4 


50  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Her  voice  was  like  tlie  wildest,  saddest  tone, 
Yet  sweet,  of  some  loved  voice  heard  long  ago. 
I  wept.     Shall  this  fair  woman  all  alone 
Over  the  sea  with  that  fierce  Serpent  go  ? 
His  head  is  on  her  heart,  and  \vho  can  know^ 
How  soon  he  may  devour  his  feeble  prey  ?  — 
Such  were  ray  thoughts,  when  the  tide  'gan  to  flow ; 
And  that  strange  boat  like  the  moon's  shade  did  sway 
Amid  reflected  stars  tliat  in  the  waters  lay. 

xxm. 

A  boat  of  rare  device,  which  had  no  sail 
But  its  own  curved  prow  of  thin  moonstone. 
Wrought  like  a  web  of  texture  fine  and  frail, 
To  catch  those  gentlest  v>^inds  which  are  not  knoAvn 
To  breathe,  but  by  the  steady  speed  alone 
With  which  it  cleaves  the  sparkling  sea ;  and  now 
We  are  embarked,  the  mountains  hang  and  frown 
Over  the  starry  deep  that  gleams  below 
A  vast  and  dim  expanse,  as  o'er  the  waves  we  go. 


f)id  as  we  sailed,  a  strange  and  awful  tale 
^      hat  Woman  told,  like  such  mysterious  dream 
"  As  makes  the  slumberer's  cheek  with  wonder  pale  ! 
'Twas  midnight,  and  around,  a  shoreless  stream, 
Wide  ocean  rolled,  when  that  majestic  theme 
Shrined  in  her  heart  found  utterance,  and  she  bent 
Her  looks  on  mine  ;  those  eyes  a  kindling  beam 
Of  love  divine  into  my  spirit  sent, 
And,  ere  her  lips  could  move,  made  the  air  eloquent. 


Speak  not  to  me,  but  hear !  much  shalt  thou  learn, 
Much  must  remain  unthought,  and  more  untold, 
In  the  dark  Future's  overflowing  urn : 
Know  then,  that  from  the  depth  of  ages  old 
Two  Powers  o'er  mortal  things  dominion  hold 
Ruling  the  world  with  a  divided  lot. 
Immortal,  all-pervading,  manifold, 
Twin  Genii,  equal  Gods  — when  life  and  thought 
Sprang  forth,  they  burst  the  womb  of  inessential  Naught 


The  earliest  dweller  of  the  world  alone 
Stood  on  the  verge  of  chaos  :  Lo  !  afar 
O'er  the  wide  wild  abyss  two  meteors  shone. 
Sprung  from  the  depth  of  its  tempestuous  jar: 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  51 

A  blood-red  Comet  and  the  Morning  Star 
Mingling  their  beams  in  combat —  as  he  stood 
All  thoughts  within  his  mind  waged  mutual  war. 
In  dreadful  sympathy  —  when  to  the  flood 
That  fair  star  fell,  he  turned  and  shed  his  brother's  blood. 


Thus  evil  triumphed,  and  the  Spii-it  of  evil, 
One  Powder  of  many  shapes  which  none  may  knovs^, 
One  Shape  of  many  names ;  the  Fiend  did  revel 
In  victory,  reigning  o'er  a  world  of  wo. 
For  the  new  race  of  man  went  to  and  fro, 
Famished  and  homeless,  loathed  and  loathing,  wild, 
And  hating  good  —  for  his  immortal  foe 
He  changed  from  starry  shape,  beauteous  and  mild, 
To  a  dire  Snake,  with  man  and  beast  unreconciled. 


The  darkness  lingering  o'er  the  dawn  of  things 
Was  Evil's  breath  and  life:  this  made  him  strong 
To  soar  aloft  with  overshadowing  wings  ; 
And  the  great  Spirit  of  Good  did  creep  among 
The  nations  of  mankind,  and  every  tongue 
Cursed  and  blasphemed  him  as  he  past ;  for  none 
Knew  good  from  evil,  though  their  names  were  hung 
In  mockery  o'er  the  fane  where  many  a  groan, 
As  King,  and  Lord,  and  God,  the  conquering  Fiend  did  own. 


The  fiend,  w^hose  name  was  Legion  ;  Death,  Decay, 
Earthquake  and  Blight,  and  Want,  and  Madness  pale. 
Winged  and  wan  diseases,  an  array 
Numerous  as  leaves  that  strew  the  autumnal  gale  ; 
Poison,  a  snake  in  flowers,  beneath  the  veil 
Of  food  and  mirth,  hiding  his  mortal  head ; 
And,  without  whom  all  these  might  naught  avail, 
Fear,  Hatred,  Faith,  and  Tyranny,  who  spread 
Those  subtle  nets  which  snare  the  living  and  the  dead. 


His  spirit  is  their  power,  and  they  his  slaves 
In  air,  and  light,  and  thought,  and  language  dwell ; 
And  keep  their  state  from  palaces  to  graves, 
In  all  resorts  of  men  —  invisible. 
But  when,  in  ebon  mirror,  Nightmare  fell 
To  tyrant  or  impostor  bids  them  rise. 
Black-winged  demon  forms  —  whom,  from  the  hell, 
His  reign  and  dwelling  beneath  nether  skies, 
He  loosens  to  their  dark  and  blasting  ministries. 


52  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


In  the  world's  youth  his  empire  was  as  firm 
As  its  foundations  —  soon  the  Spirit  of  Good, 
Though  in  the  hkeness  of  a  loathsome  worm, 
Sprang  from  the  billows  of  the  formless  flood, 
Which  shrank  and  fled  ;  and  with  that  fiend  of  blood 
Renewed  the  doubtful  -war  —  thrones  then  first  shook, 
And  earth's  immense  and  trampled  multitude. 
In  hope  on  their  own  powers  began  to  look. 
And  Fear,  the  demon  pale,  his  sanguine  shrine  forsook. 


Then  Greece  arose,  and  to  its  bards  and  sages, 
In  dream,  the  golden-pinioned  Genii  came, 
Even  where  they  slept  amid  the  night  of  ages, 
Steeping  their  hearts  in  the  divinest  flame 
Which  thy  breath  kindled,  Power  of  holiest  name  ! 
And  oft  in  cycles  since,  when  darkness  gave 
New  weapons  to  thy  foe,  their  sunlike  fame 
Upon  the  combat  shone —  a  light  to  save, 
Like  Paradise  spread  forth  beyond  the  shadowy  grave. 

XXXIII. 

•Buch  is  this  conflict  —  Ayhen  mankind  doth  strive 

^Vith  its  oppressors  in  a  strife  of  blood. 
Or  when  free  thoughts,  like  lightnings,  are  alive  ; 
And  in  each  bosom  of  tlie  multitude 
Justice  and  truth,  with  custom's  hydra  brood, 
Wage  silent  war  ;  —  when  priests  and  kings  dissemble 
In  smiles  or  frowns  their  fierce  disquietude. 
When  round  pure  hearts,  a  host  of  hopes  assemble, 
The  Snake  and  Eagle  meet  —  the  world's  foundations  trembh 


Thou  hast  beheld  that  fight  —  when  to  thy  home 
Thou  dost  return,  steep  not  its  hearth  in  tears  ; 
Though  thou  may'st  hear  that  earth  is  now  become 
The  tyrant's  garbage,  which  to  his  compeers, 
The  vile  reward  of  their  dishonored  years, 
He  will  dividing  give.     The  victor  Fiend 
Omnipotent  of  yore,  now  quails,  and  fears 
His  triumph  dearly  won,  which  soon  ■will  lend 
An  impulse  swift  and  sure  to  his  approaching  end. 


List,  stranger,  list !  mine  is  a  human  form. 
Like  that  thou  wearest  —  touch  me  —  shrink  not  now  1 
My  hand  thou  feel'st  is  not  a  gho.st's,  but  warm 
With  human  blood.     'Twas  many  years  ago. 


'      THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  53 

Since  nrhi  my  thirsting  soul  aspired  to  know 
The  secrets  of  this  wondrous  world,  when  deep 
My  heart  w^as  pierced  with  sympathy  for  wo 
Which  could  not  be  mine  own  —  and  thought  did  keep 
In  dream,  unnatural  watch  beside  an  infant's  sleep. 


Wo  could  not  be  mine  ow^n,  since  far  from  men 
I  dwelt,  a  free  and  happy  orphan  child, 
By  the  sea-shore  in  a  deep  mountain  glen : 
And  near  the  waves  and  through  the  forests  wild 
I  roamed,  to  storm  and  darkness  reconciled, 
Por  I  was  calm  while  tempest  shook  the  sky  : 
But,  when  the  breathless  heavens  in  beauty  smiled, 
1  wejjt  sweet  tears,  yet  too  tumultuously 
For  peace,  and  clasped  my  hands  aloft  in  ecstasy. 

X  X  X  V  1  I . 

These  were  forebodings  of  my  fate.     Before 
A  w^oman's  heart  beat  in  my  virgin  breast, 
It  had  been  nurtured  in  divinest  lore  : 
A  dying  poet  gave  me  books,  and  blest 
With  wild  but  holy  talk  the  sweet  unrest 
In  which  I  watched  him  as  he  died  away —  j 

A  youth  with  hoary  hair —  a  fleeting  guest 
Of  our  lone  mountains  —  and  this  lore  did  sway 
My  spirit  like  a  storm,  contending  there  alway. 

XXXVIII. 

Thus  the  dark  tale  which  history  doth  unfold 
I  knew,  but  not,  methinks.  as  others  know, 
For  they  weep  not;  and  Wisdom  had  unrolled 
The  clouds  which  hide  the  gulf  of  mortal  wo : 
To  few  can  she  that  warning  vision  show, 
For  I  loved  all  things  with  intense  devotion  ; 
So  that  when  Hope's  deep  source  in  fullest  ilow. 
Like  earthquake  did  uplift  the  stagnant  ocean 
Of  human  thoughts  —  mine  shook  beneath  the  wide  emotion. 


When  first  the  living  blood  through  all  tliese  veins 
Kindled  a  thought  in  sense,  great  France  sprang  forth, 
And  seized,  as  if  to  break,  the  ponderous  chains 
Which  bind  in  wo  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
I  saw,  and  started  from  my  cottage  hearth  ; 
And  to  the  clouds  and  waves  in  tameless  gladness 
Shrieked,  till  they  caught  immeasurable  mirth  — 
And  laughed  in  light  and  music  :  soon,  sweet  madness 
Was  poured  upon  my  heart,  a  soft  and  thrilling  sadness. 


54  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Deep  slumber  fell  on  me :  —  my  dreams  were  fire, 
Soft  and  delightful  thoughts  did  rest  and  hover 
Like  shadows  o'er  my  brain  ;  and  strange  desire, 
The  tempest  of  a  passion  raging  over 
My  tranquil  soul,  its  depths  with  light  did  cover, 
"Which  past ;  and  calm  and  darkness,  sweeter  far. 
Came  —  then  I  loved  ;  but  not  a  human  lover ! 
For  when  I  rose  from  sleep,  the  Morning  Star 
Shone  through  the  woodbine  wreaths  which  round  my  casemeni 


'Twas  like  an  eye  which  seemed  to  smile  on  me. 
I  w^atched,  till  by  the  sun  made  pale,  it  sank 
Under  the  billows  of  the  heaving  sea  ; 
But  from  its  beams  deep  love  my  spirit  drank. 
And  to  my  brain  the  boundless  world  now  shrank 
Into  one  thought  —  one  image  —  yea,  for  ever  ! 
Even  like  the  day's  spring,  poured  on  vapors  dank, 
The  beams  of  that  one  Star  did  shoot  and  quiver 
Through  my  benighted  mind  —  and  were  extinguished  never. 


*rhe  day  past  thus :  at  night,  methought  in  dream 
A  shape  of  speechless  beauty  did  appear  ; 
It  stood  like  light  on  a  careering  stream 
Of  golden  clouds  which  shook  the  atmosphere ; 
A  winged  youth,  his  radiant  brow  did  wear 
The  Morning  Star  :  a  wild  dissolving  bliss 
Over  my  frame  he  breathed,  approaching  near, 
And  bent  his  eyes  of  kindling  tenderness 
Near  mine,  and  on  my  lips  impressed  a  lingering  kisi 


And  said  :  A  Spirit  loves  thee,  mortal  maiden. 
How  wilt  thou  prove  thy  worth  ?     Then  joy  and  sleep 
Together  fled ;  my  soul  was  deeply  laden. 
And  to  the  shore  I  went  to  muse  and  weep  ; 
But  as  I  moved,  over  my  heart  did  creep 
A  joy  less  soft,  but  more  profound  and  strong 
Than  my  sweet  dream  ;  and  it  forbade  to  keep 
The  path  of  the  sea-shore  :  that  Spirit's  tongue 
Seemed  whispering  in  my  heart,  and  bore  my  steps  along. 


How,  to  that  vast  and  peopled  city  led. 
Which  was  a  field  of  holy  warfare  then, 
I  walked  among  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
And  shared  in  fearless  deeds  with  evil  men. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  55 

Calm  as  an  angel  in  the  dragon's  den — 
How  I  braved  death  for  liberty  and  truth, 
And  spurned  at  peace,  and  power,  and  fame  ;  and  when 
Those  hopes  had  lost  the  glory  of  their  youth, 
How  sadly  I  returned  —  might  move  the  hearer's  mth  : 


Warm  tears  throng  fast !  the  tale  may  not  be  said — 
Know  then,  that  when  this  grief  had  been  subdued, 
I  was  not  left,  like  others,  cold  and  dead  ; 
The  Spirit  whom  I  loved  in  solitude 
Sustained  his  child  :  the  tempest-shaken  wood, 
The  waves,  the  fountains,  and  the  hush  of  night — 
These  were  his  voice,  and  well  I  understood 
His  smile  divine,  when  the  calm  sea  was  bright 
With  silent  stars,  and  Heaven  was  breathless  with  delight. 


In  lonely  glens  amid  the  roar  of  rivers, 
When  the  dim  nights  were  moonless,  have  I  known 
Joys  which  no  tongue  can  tell ;  my  pale  lip  quivers 
When  thought  revisits  them  :  —  know  thou  alone, 
That  after  many  wondrous  years  were  flown, 
I  w^as  aw^akened  by  a  shriek  of  wo  ; 
And  over  me  a  mystic  robe  was  thrown, 
By  viewless  hands,  and  a  bright  Star  did  glow 
Before  my  steps  —  the  Snake  then  met  his  mortal  foe. 


Thou  fearest  not  then  the  Serpent  on  thy  heart ! 
Fear  it !  she  said,  with  brief  and  passionate  cry, 
And  spake  no  more  :  that  silence  made  me  start— 
I  looked,  and  we  were  sailing  pleasantly. 
Swift  as  a  cloud  between  the  sea  and  sky, 
Beneath  the  rising  moon  seen  far  away  ; 
Mountains  of  ice,  like  sapphire,  piled  on  high 
Hemming  the  horizon  round,  in  silence  lay 
On  the  still  waters  —  these  we  did  approach  alway. 


And  swift  and  swifter  grew  the  vessel's  motion, 
So  that  a  dizzy  trance  fell  on  my  brain  — 
W^ild  music  woke  me :  -we  had  passed  the  ocean 
Which  girds  the  pole.  Nature's  remotest  reign — 
And  we  glode  fast  o'er  a  pellucid  plain 
Of  waters,  azure  with  the  noon-tide  day. 
Ethereal  mountains  shone  around  —  a  Fane 
Stood  in  the  midst,  girt  by  green  isles  which  lay 
On  the  blue  sunny  deep,  resplendent  far  away. 


56  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAI 


It  was  a  Temple,  such  as  mortal  hand 
Has  never  built,  nor  ecstasy  nor  dream 
Reared  in  the  cities  of  enchanted  land : 
'Tv/as  likest  Heaven,  ere  yet  day's  purple  stream 
Ebbs  o'er  the  western  forest,  while  the  gleam 
Of  the  unrisen  moon  among  the  clouds 
Is  gathering  —  when  with  many  a  golden  beam 
The  thronging  constellations  rush  in  crowds. 
Paving  with  fire  the  sky  and  the  marmoreal  floods. 


Like  w^hat  may  be  conceived  of  this  vast  dome, 
When  from  the  depths  which  thought  can  seldom  pierce 
Genius  beholds  it  rise,  his  native  home, 
Girt  by  the  deserts  of  the  Universe, 
Yet,  nor  in  painting's  light,  or  mightier  verse. 
Or  sculpture's  marble  language,  can  invest 
That  shape  to  mortal  sense  —  such  glooms  immerse 
That  incommunicable  sight,  and  rest 
Upon  the  laboring  brain  and  overburthened  bieasL 


Winding  among  the  lawny  islands  fair, 
Whose  bloomy  forests  starred  the  shadowy  deep, 
The  wingless  boat  paused  where  an  ivory  stair 
Its  fretwork  in  the  crystal  sea  did  steep, 
EncircUng  tliat  vast  Fane's  aerial  heap  : 
We  disembarked,  and  through  a  portal  wide 
We  passed  —  whose  roof  of  moonstone  carved,  did  keep 
A  glimmering  o'er  the  forms  on  eveiy  side, 
Sculptures  like  life  and  thought ;  immovable,  deep  eyed. 


We  came  to  a  vast  hall,  wliose  glorious  roof 
Was  diamond,  which  had  drunk  the  lightning's  sheen 
In  darkness,  and  now  poured  it  thi'ough  the  woof 
Of  spell-inwoven  clouds  hung  there  to  screen 
Its  blinding  splendor — through  such  veil  was  seen 
That  work  of  subtlest  power,  divine  and  rare  ; 
Orb  above  orb,  with  starry  shapes  between. 
And  horned  moons,  and  meteors  strange  and  fair, 
On  night-black  columns  poised  —  one  hollow  hemisphere  ! 


Ten  thousand  columns  in  that  quivering  light 
Distinct —  between  whose  shafts  wound  far  away 
The  long  and  labyrinthine  aisles  —  more  bright 
With  their  own  radiance  than  the  Heaven  of  Day  ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  57 

And  on  the  jasper  avails  around  there  lay 
Paintings,  the  poesy  of  mightiest  thought, 
Wliich  did  the  Spirit's  history  display  ; 
A  tale  of  passionate  change,  divinely  taught, 
Which,  in  their  winged  dance,  unconscious  Genii  wronght 


Beneath,  there  sate  on  many  a  sapphire  throne, 
The  Great,  who  had  departed  from  mankind, 
A  mighty  Senate  ;  some,  whose  white  hair  shone 
Like  mountain  snow,  mild,  beautiful,  and  blind. 
Some,  female  forms,  whose  gestures  beamed  with  mind ; 
And  ardent  youths,  and  children  bright  and  fair ; 
And  some  had  lyres  whose  strings  were  intertwined 
W^ith  pale  and  clinging  flames,  which  ever  there 
Waked  faint  yet  thrilling  sounds  that  pierced  the  crystal  air. 


One  seat  was  vacant  in  the  midst,  a  throne 
Reared  on  a  pyramid  like  sculptured  flame, 
Distinct  with  circling  steps  which  rested  on 
Their  own  deep  fire  —  soon  as  the  Woman  came 
Into  that  hall,  she  shrieked  the  Spirit's  name 
And  fell ;  and  vanished  slowly  from  the  sight. 
Darkness  arose  from  her  dissolving  frame. 
Which  gathering,  filled  that  dome  of  woven  light, 
Blotting  its  sphered  stars  with  supernatural  night. 


Then  first,  two  glittering  lights  were  seen  to  glide 
In  circles  on  the  amethystine  floor, 
Small  serpent  eyes  trailing  from  side  to  side, 
Like  meteor's  on  a  river's  grassy  shore, 
They  round  each  other  rolled,  dilating  more 
And  more  —  then  rose,  commingling  into  one. 
One  clear  and  mighty  planet  hanging  o'er 
A  cloud  of  deepest  shadow,  which  was  thrown 
Athwart  the  glowing  steps  and  the  crystalline  throne. 


The  cloud  which  rested  on  that  cone  of  flame 
Was  cloven ;  beneath  the  planet  sate  a  Form 
Tairer  than  tongue  can  speak  or  thought  may  frame, 
The  radiance  of  whose  limbs  rose-like  and  warm 
Flowed  forth,  and  did  with  softest  light  inform 
The  shadowy  dome,  the  sculptures  and  the  state 
Of  those  assembled  shapes  —  with  clinging  charm 
Sinking  upon  their  hearts  and  mine  —  He  sate 
Majestic,  yet  most  mild  —  culm,  yet  compassionate. 


58  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Wonder  and  joy  a  passing  faintness  threw 
Over  my  brow  —  a  hand  supp)orted  me 
Whose  touch  was  magic  strength  :  an  eye  of  blue 
Looked  into  mine,  hke  moonhght,  soothingly ; 
And  a  voice  said  —  "  Thou  must  a  listener  be 
This  day  :  two  mighty  Spirits  now  return, 
Like  birds  of  calm,  from  the  world's  raging  sea, 
They  pour  fresh  light  fi'om  Hope's  immortal  urn ; 
A  tale  of  human  power  —  despair  not  —  list  and  learn  !' 


I  looked,  and  lo !  one  stood  forth  eloquently : 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  deep,  and  the  clear  brow 
Which  shadow^ed  them  was  like  the  morning  sky, 
The  cloudless  heaven  of  spring,  when  in  their  flow^ 
Through  tlie  bright  air,  the  soft  winds  as  they  blow 
Wake  the  green  world  —  his  gestures  did  obey 
The  oracular  mind  that  made  liis  featui'es  glow, 
And  where  his  curved  lips  half  open  lay, 
Passion's  divinest  stream  had  made  impetuous  way. 


Beneath  the  darkness  of  his  outspread  hair 
He  stood  thus  beautiful ;  but  there  was  one 
Who  sate  beside  him  like  his  shadow  there, 
And  held  his  hand  —  far  lovelier  —  she  was  known 
To  be  thus  fair,  by  the  few  lines  alone 
Which  through  her  floating  locks  and  gathered  ck)ke. 
Glances  of  soul-dissolving  glory,  shone  : 
None  else  beheld  her  eyes  —  in  him  they  woke 
Memories  which  found  a  tongue,  as  thus  he  silence  broke. 


CANTO  II. 


The  starlight  smile  of  children,  the  sweet  looks 
Of  women,  the  fair  breast  from  which  I  fed. 
The  murmur  of  the  unreposing  brooks, 
And  the  green  light  which,  shifting  overhead, 
Some  tangled  bower  of  vines  aiound  me  shed, 
The  shells  on  the  sea  sand,  and  the  wild  flowers, 
The  lamplight  through  the  rafters  cheerly  si)read. 
And  on  the  twining  flax  —  in  life's  young  hoars 
These  sights  and  sounds  did  nurse  my  spirit's  folded  powers. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  59 


In  Argolis,  beside  tlie  echoing  sea, 
Such  impulses  within  my  mortal  frame 
Arose,  and  they  were  dear  to  memory, 
Like  tokens  of  the  dead  :  but  others  came 
Soon,  in  another  shape  :  the  wondrous  fame 
Of  the  past  world,  the  vital  words  and  deeds 
Of  minds  whom  neither  time  nor  change  can  tame, 
Traditions  dark  and  old,  whence  evil  creeds 
Start  forth,  and  whose  dim  shade  a  stream  of  poison  feeds. 


I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  the  various  story 
Of  human  life,  and  wept  unwilling  tears. 
Feeble  historians  of  its  shame  and  glory, 
False  disputants  on  all  its  hopes  and  fears. 
Victims  who  worshiped  ruin  —  chroniclers 
Of  daily  scorn,  and  slaves  who  loathed  their  state  , 
Yet  flattering  power  had  given  its  ministei's 
A  throne  of  judgement  in  the  grave  :  'twas  fate. 
That  among  such  as  these  my  youth  should  seek  its  mate. 


The  land  in  which  I  lived,  by  a  fell  bane 
Was  withered  up.     Tyrants  dwelt  side  by  side. 
And  stabled  in  our  homes  —  until  the  chain 
Stifled  the  captive's  cry,  and  to  abide 
That  blasting  curse  men  had  no  shame  —  all  vied 
In  evfl,  slave  and  despot ;  fear  with  lust. 
Strange  fellowship  through  mutual  hate  had  tied, 
Like  two  dark  serpents  tangled  in  the  dust. 
Which  on  the  paths  of  men  their  mingling  poison  thrust. 


Earth,  our  bright  home,  its  mountains  and  its  waters, 
And  the  ethereal  shapes  which  are  suspended 
Over  its  green  expanse,  and  those  fair  daughters, 
The  clouds,  of  Sun  and  Ocean,  who  have  blended 
The  colors  of  the  air  since  first  extended 
It  cradled  the  young  world,  none  wandered  forth 
To  see  or  feel :  a  darkness  had  descended 
On  every  heart :  the  light  which  shows  its  worth 
Must  among  gentle  thoughts  and  fearless  take  its  birth. 


This  vital  world,  this  home  of  happy  spirits. 
Was  as  a  dungeon  to  my  blasted  kind, 
All  that  despair  from  murdered  hope  inherits 
They  sought,  and  in  their  helpless  misery  blind, 


60  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

A  deeper  prison  and  heavier  chains  did  find, 
And  stronger  tyrants  :  a  dark  gulf  before, 
The  realm  of  a  stern  Ruler,  yawned ;  behind, 
Terror  and  Time  conflicting  drove,  and  bore 
On  their  tempestuous  flood  the  shrieking  wretch  from  shore. 


Out  of  that  Ocean's  wrecks  had  Guilt  and  Wo 
Framed  a  dark  dwelling  for  their  homeless  thought, 
And,  starting  at  the  ghosts  which  to  and  fro 
Glide  o'er  its  dim  and  gloomy  strand,  had  brought 
The  worship  thence  which  they  each  other  taught. 
Well  might  men  loathe  their  life,  well  might  they  turn 
Even  to  the  ills  again  from  v.diich  they  sought 
Such  refuge  after  death  !  — well  might  they  learn 
To  gaze  on  tliis  fair  world  with  hopeless  unconcern  ! 


For  they  all  pined  in  bondage  :  body  and  soul, 
Tyrant  and  slave,  victim  and  torturer,  bent 
Before  one  Powder,  to  which  supreme  control 
Over  their  will  by  their  own  weakness  lent. 
Made  all  its  many  names  omnipotent ; 
All  symbols  of  things  evil,  all  divine  ; 
And  hymns  of  blood  or  mockery,  which  rent 
The  air  from  all  its  fanes,  did  intertwine 
Imposture's  impious  toils  round  each  discordant  shrine. 


I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  life's  various  story, 
And  in  no  careless  heart  transcribed  the  tale  ; 
But,  from  the  sneers  of  men  who  had  grown  hoary 
In  shame  and  scorn,  from  groans  of  crowds  made  pale 
By  famine,  from  a  mother's  desolate  wail 
O'er  her  polluted  child,  from  innocent  blood 
Poured  on  the  earth,  and  brovv's  anxious  and  pale 
With  the  heart's  warfare :  did  I  gather  food 
To  feed  my  many  thoughts  —  a  tameless  multitude. 


1  w^andered  through  the  wrecks  of  days  departed 
Far  by  the  desolated  shore,  when  even 
O'er  the  still  sea  and  jagged  islets  darted 
The  light  of  moonrise  ;  in  the  northern  heaven. 
Among  the  clouds  near  the  horizon  driven, 
The  mountains  lay  beneath  one  planet  pale  ; 
Around  me,  broken  tombs  and  columns  riven 
Looked  vast  in  twilight,  and  the  sorrowing  gale 
Waked  in  those  ruins  gray  its  everlasting  wail ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  61 


I  knew  not  who  had  framed  these  wonders  then. 
Nor  had  I  heard  the  story  of  their  deeds  ; 
But  dwellings  of  a  race  of  mightier  men,        ^ 
And  monuments  of  less  ungentle  creeds 
Tell  their  own  tale  to  him  who  wisely  heeds 
The  language  which  they  speak ;  and  now,  to  me 
The  moonlight  making  pale  the  blooming  w^eeds, 
The  bright  stars  shining  in  the  breathless  sea. 
Interpreted  those  scrolls  of  mortal  mystery. 


Such  man  has  been,  and  such  may  yet  become ! 
Ay,  wiser,  gi-eater,  gentler,  even  than  they 
Who  on  the  fragments  of  yon  shattered  dome 
Have  stamped  the  sign  of  power  —  I  felt  the  sway 
Of  the  vast  stream  of  ages  bear  away 
My  floating  thoughts  —  my  heart  beat  loud  and  fast- 
Even  as  a  storm  let  loose  beneath  the  ray 
Of  the  still  moon,  my  spirit  onward  past 
Beneath  truth's  steady  beams  upon  its  tumult  cast. 


It  shall  be  thus  no  more  !  too  long,  too  long, 
Sons  of  the  glorious  dead  !  have  ye  lain  bound 
In  darkness  and  in  ruin.  —  Hope  is  strong. 
Justice  and  Truth  their  winged  child  have  found  — 
Awake  !  arise  !  until  the  mighty  sound 
Of  your  career  shall  scatter  in  its  gust 
The  thrones  of  the  oppressor,  and  the  ground 
Hide  the  last  altar's  unregarded  duM, 
Whose  Idol  has  so  long  betrayed  your  impious  ti'usL 


It  must  be  so  —  I  will  arise  and  waken 
The  multitude,  and  like  a  sulphurous  hill. 
Which  on  a  sudden  from  its  snows  had  shaken 
The  swoon  of  ages,  it  shall  burst,  and  Kll 
The  world  with  cleansing  fire  ;  it  must,  it  will  — 
It  may  not  be  restrained  !  —  and  who  shall  stand 
Amid  the  rocking  earthquake  steadfast  still, 
But  Laon  ?  on  high  Freedom's  desert  land 
A  tower  whose  marble  walls  the  leagued  storms  withstand  ! 


One  summer  night,  in  commune  witli  tlie  hope 
Thus  deeply  fed,  amid  those  ruins  gray 
I  watched,  beneath  the  dark  sky's  starry  (rope  ; 
And  ever  from  tiiat  hour  upon  mo  lay 


62  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

The  burden  of  this  hope,  and  night  or  day, 
In  vision  or  in  dream,  clove  to  my  breast : 
Among  mankind,  or  when  gone  far  away 
To  the  lone  shores  and  mountains,  'twas  a  guest, 
Which  followed  where  I  fled,  and  watched  when  I  did  rest. 


These  hopes  found  words  through  which  my  spirit  sought 
To  weave  a  bondage  of  such  sympathy 
As  might  create  some  response  to  the  thought 
Which  ruled  me  now  —  and  as  the  vapors  lie 
Bright  in  the  outspread  morning's  radiancy, 
So  were  these  thoughts  invested  with  the  light 
Of  language ;  and  all  bosoms  made  reply 
On  which  its  lustre  streamed,  whene'er  it  might 
Through  darkness  wide  and  deep  those  tranced  spirits  smite 


Yes,  many  an  eye  with  dizzy  tears  was  dim, 
And  oft  I  thought  to  clasp  my  own  heart's  brother, 
When  I  could  feel  the  listener's  senses  sw^im, 
And  hear  his  breath  its  ow^n  swift  gaspings  smother 
Even  as  my  words  evoked  them  —  and  another, 
And  yet  another,  I  did  fondly  deem. 
Pelt  that  w^e  all  were  sons  of  one  great  mother  ; 
And  the  cold  truth  such  sad  reverse  did  seem. 
As  to  awake  in  giief  from  some  delightful  dream. 


Yes,  oft  beside  the  ruined  labyrinth 
Which  skirts  the  hoary  caves  of  the  green  deep, 
Did  Laon  and  his  friend  on  one  gray  plinth. 
Round  whose  worn  base  the  wild  waves  hiss  and  leap, 
Resting  at  eve,  a  lofty  converse  keep  : 
And  that  his  friend  was  false  may  now  be  said 
Calmly  —  that  he  like  other  men  could  weep 
Tears  which  are  lies,  and  could  betray  and  spread 
Snares  for  that  guileless  heart  which  for  his  own  had  bled. 


Then,  had  no  great  aim  recompensed  my  sorrow, 
I  must  have  sought  dark  respite  from  its  stress 
In  dreamless  rest,  in  sleep  that  sees  no  morrow  — 
For  to  tread  life's  dismaying  wilderness 
Without  one  smile  to  cheer,  one  voice  to  bless, 
Amid  the  snares  and  scoffs  of  human  kind, 
Is  hard  —  but  I  betrayed  it  not,  nor  less 
With  love  that  scorned  return,  sought  to  unbind 
The  interwoven  clouds  which  make  its  wisdom  blind. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  63 


With  deathless  minds,  which  leave  where  they  have  past 
A  path  of  light,  my  soul  communion  knew^ ; 
Till  from  that  glorious  intercourse,  at  last, 
As  from  a  mine  of  magic  store,  I  drew 
Words  which  were  weapons  ;  round  my  heart  there  grew 
The  adamantine  armor  of  their  power, 
And  from  my  fancy  wrings  of  golden  hue 
Sprang  forth  —  yet  not  alone  from  wisdom's  tower, 
A  minister  of  truth,  these  plumes  young  Laon  bore. 


An  orphan  with  my  parents  lived,  whose  eyes 
Were  lode-stars  of  delight,  which  drew  me  home 
When  I  might  wander  forth  ;  nor  did  I  prize 
Aught  human  thing  beneath  Heaven's  mighty  dome 
Beyond  this  child :  so  when  sad  hours  were  come, 
And  baffled  hope  like  ice  still  clung  to  me. 
Since  kin  were  cold,  and  friends  were  now  become 
Heartless  and  false,  I  turned  from  all,  to  be, 
Cythna,  the  only  source  of  tears  and  smiles  to  thee. 

XXII, 

What  wert  thou  then  ?     A  child  most  infantine, 
Yet  wandering  far  beyond  that  innocent  age 
In  all  but  its  sweet  looks  and  mien  divine ; 
Even  then,  methouglit,  with  the  world's  tyrant  rage 
A  patient  warfare  thy  young  heart  did  wage. 
When  those  soft  eyes  of  scarcely  conscious  thought, 
Some  tale,  or  thine  ow^n  fancies,  would  engage 
To  overflow  with  tears,  or  converse  fraught 
With  passion,  o'er  their  depths  its  fleeting  light  had  wrought. 

XXIII. 

She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of  brightness, 
A  power,  that  from  its  objects  scarcely  drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being  —  in  her  lightness 
Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning  dew, 
Which  wanders  through  the  waste  air's  pathless  blue. 
To  nourish  some  far  desert ;  she  did  seem 
Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she  grew, 
Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal  dream 
Which  walks,  when  tempest  sleeps,  the  wave  of  life's  dark  stream. 


As  mine  own  shadow  was  this  child  to  me, 
A  second  self,  far  dearer  and  more  fair ; 
Which  clothed  in  undissolving  radiancy 
All  those  Bteep  paths  which  languor  and  despair 


64  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Of  human  things  had  made  so  dark  and  bare, 
But  which  I  trod  alone  —  nor,  till  bereft 
Of  friends,  and  overcome  by  lonely  care, 
Knew  I  what  solace  for  that  loss  was  left, 
Though  by  a  bitter  wound  my  trusting  heart  was  cleft. 


Once  she  was  dear,  now  she  was  all  I  had 
To  love  in  human  life  —  this  playmate  svs^eet, 
This  child  of  twelve  years  old  —  so  she  was  made 
My  sole  associate,  and  her  willing  feet 
"Wandered  with  mine  where  earth  and  ocean  meet. 
Beyond  the  aerial  mountains  whose  vast  cells 
The  unreposing  billow^s  ever  beat, 
Through  forests  wide  and  old,  and  lavrny  dells, 
Where  boughs  of  incense  droop  over  the  emerald  wells. 


And  warm  and  light  I  felt  her  clasping  hand 
When  twined  in  mine  :  she  follow^ed  w^here  I  went, 
Through  the  lone  paths  of  our  immortal  land. 
It  had  no  waste,  but  some  memorial  lent 
Which  strung  me  to  my  toil  —  some  monument 
Vital  w^ith  mind  :  then  Cythna  by  my  side, 
Until  the  bright  and  beaming  day  were  spent, 
Would  rest,  with  looks  entreating  to  abide, 
Too  earnest  and  too  sweet  ever  to  be  denied. 


And  soon  T  could  not  have  refused  her  —  thus 
For  ever,  day  and  night,  we  two  were  ne'er 
Parted,  but  when  brief  sleep  divided  us  : 
And,  when  the  pauses  of  the  lulling  air 
Of  noon  beside  the  sea  had  made  a  lair 
For  her  soothed  senses,  in  my  arms  she  slept. 
And  I  kept  w^atch  over  her  slumbers  there, 
While,  as  the  shifting  visions  over  her  swept. 
Amid  her  innocent  rest  by  turns  she  smiled  and  vs^ept. 


And,  in  the  murmur  of  her  dreams,  was  heard 
Sometimes  the  name  of  Laon  :  suddenly 
She  would  ai'ise,  and,  like  the  secret  bird 
Whom  sunset  wakens,  fill  the  shore  and  sky 
With  her  sweet  accents  —  a  wild  melody  ! 
Hymns  w^hich  my  soul  had  woven  to  Freedom,  strong 
The  source  of  passion,  whence  they  rose  to  be 
Triumphant  strains,  which,  like  a  spirit's  tongue, 
To  the  enchanted  w^aves  that  child  of  glory  sung. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  65 


Her  white  arms  lifted  through  the  shadowy  stream 
Of  her  loose  hair  —  oh,  excellently  great 
Seemed  to  me  then  my  purpose,  the  vast  theme 
Of  those  impassioned  songs,  when  Cythna  sate 
Amid  the  calm  which  rapture  doth  create 
After  its  tumult,  her  heart  vibrating, 
Her  spirit  o'er  the  ocean's  floating  state 
From  her  deep  eyes  far  wandering,  on  the  wing 
Of  visions  that  were  mine,  beyond  its  utmost  spring. 


For,  before  Cythna  loved  it,  had  my  song 
Peopled  with  thoughts  the  boundless  universe, 
A  mighty  congregation,  which  were  strong 
Where'er  they  trod  the  darkness  to  disperse 
The  cloud  of  that  unutterable  curse 
Which  clings  upon  mankind :  all  things  became 
Slaves  to  my  holy  and  heroic  verse. 
Earth,  sea,  and  sky,  the  planets,  life,  and  fame, 
And  fate,  or  whate'er  else  binds  the  world's  wondrous  frame. 


And  this  beloved  child  thus  felt  the  sway 
Of  my  conceptions,  gathering  like  a  cloud 
The  very  wind  on  which  it  rolls  away : 
Hers  too  were  all  my  thoughts,  ere  yet.  endowed 
With  music  and  with  light,  their  fountains  flowed 
In  poesy  ;  and  her  still  and  earnest  face. 
Pallid  with  feelings  which  intensely  glowed 
Within,  w^as  turned  on  mine  with  speechless  grace, 
Watching  the  hopes  which  tliere  her  heart  had  learned  to  trace 

xxxn. 

In  me,  communion  with  this  purest  being 
Kindled  intenser  zeal,  and  made  me  wise 
In  knowledge,  which  in  hers  mine  own  mind  seeing, 
Left  in  the  human  world  few  mysteries  : 
How  without  fear  of  evil  or  disguise 
Was  Cythna  !  —  what  a  spirit  strong  and  mild, 
Which  death,  or  pain,  or  peril,  could  despise, 
Yet  melt  in  tenderness  !  what  genius  wild, 
Yet  mighty,  was  inclosed  within  one  simple  child  ! 


New  lore  was  this  —  old  age  with  its  gray  hair, 
And  wrinkled  legends  of  unworthy  things, 
And  icy  sneers,  is  naughi :  it  can  not  dare 
To  burst  the  chains  which  life  lor  ever  flings 


66  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

On  the  entangled  soul's  aspiring  wings, 
So  is  it  cold  and  cruel,  and  is  made 
The  careless  slave  of  that  dark  power  w^hich  brings 
Evil,  like  blight  on  man,  who,  still  betrayed. 
Laughs  o'er  the  grave  in  which  his  living  hopes  are  laid. 


Nor  are  the  strong  and  the  severe  to  keep 
The  empire  of  the  world  :  thus  Cythna  taught 
Even  in  the  visions  of  her  eloquent  sleep. 
Unconscious  of  the  power  thi-ough  which  she  wrought 
The  woof  of  such  intelligible  thought. 
As  from  the  tranquil  strength  "which  cradled  lay 
In  her  smile-peopled  rest,  my  spirit  sought 
Why  the  deceiver  and  the  slave  has  sway 
O'er  heralds  so  divine  of  truth's  arising  day. 

XXXV. 

Within  that  fairest  form,  the  female  mind 
Untainted  by  the  poison  clouds  which  rest 
On  the  dark  world,  a  sacred  home  did  find  : 
But  else,  from  the  wide  earth's  maternal  breast, 
Victorious  Evil,  which  had  dispossest 
All  native  power,  had  those  fair  children  torn. 
And  made  them  slaves  to  soothe  his  vile  unrest, 
And  minister  to  lust  its  joys  forlorn, 
Till  they  had  learned  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  scorn. 


This  miseiy  was  but  coldly  felt,  till  she 
Became  my  only  friend,  who  had  indued 
My  purpose  w^ith  a  wider  sympathy  ; 
Thus,  Cythna  mourned  with  me  the  servitude 
In  which  the  half  of  humankind  were  mewed, 
Victims  of  lust  and  hate,  the  slaves  of  slaves  : 
She  mourned  that  grace  and  power  were  thrown  as  food 
To  the  hyena  Lust,  w^ho,  among  graves. 
Over  his  loathed  meal,  laughing  in  agony,  raves. 


And  I,  still  gazing  on  that  glorious  child. 
Even  as  these  thoughts  flushed  o'er  her :  "  Cythna  sweet, 
Well  with  the  world  art  thou  unreconciled  ; 
Never  will  peace  and  human  nature  meet 
Till  free  and  equal  man  and  woman  greet 
Domestic  peace  ;  and  ere  this  power  can  make 
In  human  hearts  its  calm  and  holy  seat, 
This  slavery  must  be  broken"  —  as  I  spake. 
From  Cythna' s  eyes  a  light  of  exultation  brake. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  67 


She  replied  earnestly  :  "  It  shall  be  mine, 
This  task,  mine,  Laon  !  —  thou  hast  much  to  gain  ; 
Nor  Avilt  thou  at  poor  Cythna's  pride  repine, 
If  she  should  lead  a  happy  female  train 
To  meet  thee  over  the  rejoicing  plain, 
"When  myriads  at  thy  call  shall  throng  around 
The  Golden  City."  —  Then  the  child  did  strain 
My  arm  upon  her  tremulous  heart,  and  wound 
Her  own  about  my  neck,  till  some  reply  she  found. 


I  smiled,  and  spake  not.  —  "  Wherefore  dost  thou  smile 
At  what  I  say  ?    Laon,  I  am  not  weak. 
And,  though  my  cheek  might  become  pale  the  while, 
With  thee,  if  thou  desirest,  will  1  seek 
Through  their  airay  of  banded  slaves  to  wreak 
Ruin  upon  the  tyrants.     I  had  thought 
It  was  more  hard  to  turn  my  unpractised  cheek 
To  scorn  and  shame,  and  this  beloved  spot 
And  thee,  O  dearest  Mend,  to  leave  and  murmur  not. 


"  Whence  came  I  what  I  am  ?    Thou,  Laon,  knowest 
How  a  young  child  should  thus  undaunted  be  ; 
Methinks  it  is  a  power  w^hich  thou  bestowest, 
Through  which  I  seek,  by  most  resembling  thee. 
So  to  become  most  good,  and  great,  and  free ; 
Yet  far  beyond  this  ocean's  utmost  roar 
In  towers  and  huts  are  many  like  to  me, 
Who,  could  they  see  thine  eyes,  or  feel  such  lore 
As  I  have  learned  from  them,  like  me  would  fear  no  more. 


"  Thinkest  thou  that  I  shall  speak  unskillfully, 
And  none  will  heed  me  ?    I  remember  now. 
How  once,  a  slave  in  tortures  doomed  to  die, 
Was  saved,  because  in  accents  sweet  and  low 
He  sang  a  song  his  judge  loved  long  ago. 
As  he  was  led  to  death.  —  All  shall  relent 
Who  hear  me  —  tears  as  mine  have  flowed,  shall  flow. 
Hearts  beat  as  mine  now  beats,  with  such  intent 
As  renovates  the  world  :  a  will  omnipotent ! 


"  Yes,  I  will  tread  Pride's  golden  palaces ; 
Through  Penury's  rootless  liuts  and  squalid  cells 
Will  I  descend,  where'er  in  abjectness 
Woman  with  some  vile  slave,  her  tyrant,  dwefls, 


68  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

There  with  the  music  of  thine  own  sweet  spells 
"Will  disenchant  the  captives,  and  will  pour 
For  the  despairing,  from  the  crystal  wells 
Of  thy  deep  spirit,  reason's  mighty  lore, 
And  power  shall  then  abound,  and  hope  arise  once  more. 


"  Can  man  be  free  if  woman  be  a  slave  ? 
Chain  one  who  lives  and  breathes  tliis  boundless  air 
To  the  corruption  of  a  closed  grave  ! 
Can  they  whose  mates  are  beasts,  condemned  to  bear 
Scorn,  heavier  far  than  toil  or  anguish,  dare 
To  trample  their  oppressors  ?     In  their  home 
Among  their  babes,  thou  knowcst  a  curse  would  wear 
The  shape  of  woman  —  hoaiy  crime  v^ould  come 
Behind,  and  fraud  rebuild  religion's  tottering  dome. 


"  I  am  a  child  :  I  would  not  yet  depart. 
When  I  go  forth  alone,  bearing  the  lamp 
Aloft  ■which  thou  hast  kindled  in  my  heart, 
Millions  of  slaves  from  many  a  dungeon  damp 
Shall  leap  in  joy,  as  the  benumbing  cramp 
Of  ages  leaves  their  limbs  —  no  ill  may  harm 
Thy  Cythna  ever  —  truth  its  radiant  stamp 
Has  fixed,  as  an  invulnerable  charm 
Upon  her  children's  brow,  dark  falsehood  to  disann. 


"  "Wait  yet  awhile  for  the  appointed  day  — 
Thou  wilt  depart,  and  I  with  tears  shall  stand 
Watching  thy  dim  sail  skirt  the  ocean  gray ; 
Amid  the  dw^ellers  of  this  lonely  land 

shall  remain  alone  —  and  thy  command 
Shall  then  dissolve  the  v/orld's  unquiet  trance, 
And,  multitudinous  as  the  desert  sand 
Borne  on  the  storm,  its  millions  shall  advance, 
Thronging  round  thee,  the  light  of  their  deliverance. 


"  Then,  like  the  forests  of  some  pathless  mountain, 
Which  from  remotest  glens  two  warring  winds 
Involve  in  fire,  which  not  the  loosened  fountain 
Of  broadest  floods  might  quench,  shall  all  the  kinds 
Of  evil  catch  from  our  uniting  minds 
The  spark  which  must  consume  them ;  Cythna  then 
Will  have  cast  off  the  impotence  that  binds 
Her  childhood  nov7,  and  through  the  paths  of  men 
Will  pass,  as  the  charmed  bird  that  haunts  the  serpent's  den. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  69 


.  "  We  part !  —  O  Laon,  I  must  dare,  nor  tremble, 
To  meet  those  looks  no  more  !  —  Oh,  heavy  stroke  ! 
Sweet  brother  of  my  soul ;  can  I  dissemble 
The  agony  of  this  thought  ?"  —  As  thus  she  spoke, 
The  gathered  sobs  her  quivering  accents  broke, 
And  in  my  arms  she  hid  her  beating  breast. 
I  remained  still  for  tears  —  sudden  she  woke 
As  one  awakes  from  sleep,  and  wildly  prest 
My  bosom,  her  whole  frame  impetuously  possest. 


"  We  part  to  meet  again  —  but  yon  blue  waste, 
Yon  desert  wide  and  deep,  holds  no  recess 
Within  w^hose  happy  silence,  thus  embraced 
We  might  survive  all  ills  in  one  caress  : 
Nor  doth  the  grave  —  I  fear  'tis  passionless  — 
Nor  yon  cold  vacant  heaven  :  we  meet  again 
Within  the  minds  of  men,  whose  lips  shall  bless 
Our  memory,  and  whose  hopes  its  light  retain 
When  these  dissevered  bones  are  trodden  in  the  plain.' 


I  could  not  speak,  though  she  had  ceased,  for  now 
The  fountains  of  her  feeling,  swift  and  deep, 
Seemed  to  suspend  the  tumult  of  their  How  ; 
So  we  arose,  and  by  the  starlight  steep 
Went  homeward  —  neither  did  we  speak  nor  w^eep, 
But  pale,  were  calm.     With  passion  thus  subdued 
Like  evening  shades  that  o'er  tlie  mountains  creep, 
W^e  moved  toward  our  home  ;  w^here,  in  this  mood, 
Each  from  the  other  sought  refuge  in  solitude. 


CANTO  III. 


What  thoughts  had  swav  o'er  Cythna's  lonely  slumber 
That  night,  1  know  not ;  but  my  own  did  seem 
As  if  they  might  ten  thousand  years  outnumber 
Of  waking  life,  the  visions  of  a  dream, 
Which  hid  in  one  dim  gulf  the  troubled  stream 
Of  mind  ;  a  boundless  chaos  wild  and  vast, 
Whose  limits  yet  were  never  memory's  theme  : 
And  I  lay  struggling  as  its  whirlwinds  past. 
Sometimes  for  rapture  sick,  sometimes  for  pain  aghast. 


70  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAI 


Two  hours,  whose  mighty  circle  did  embrace 
More  time  than  might  make  gray  the  infant  world, 
Rolled  thus,  a  w^eaiy  and  tumultuous  space  : 
When  the  third  came,  like  mist  on  breezes  curled. 
From  my  dim  sleep  a  shadow  was  unfurled  : 
Methought,  upon  the  threshold  of  a  cave 
I  sate  with  Cythna  ;  drooping  briony,  pearled 
With  dew  from  the  wild  streamlet's  shattered  wave, 
Hung,  where  we  sate,  to  taste  the  joys  which  Nature  gave. 


We  lived  a  day  as  we  were  wont  to  live. 
But  Nature  had  a  robe  of  glory  on, 
And  the  bright  air  o'er  every  shape  did  weave 
Intenser  hues,  so  that  the  herbless  stone, 
The  leafless  bough  among  the  leaves  alone. 
Had  being  clearer  than  its  own  could  be. 
And  Cythna' s  pure  and  radiant  self  was  shown 
In  this  strange  vision,  so  divine  to  me, 
That  if  I  loved  before,  now  love  was  agony. 


Mom  fled,  noon  came,  evening,  then  night  descended. 
And  yve  prolonged  calm  talk  beneath  the  sphere 
Of  the  calm  moon  —  when,  suddenly  was  blended 
With  our  repose  a  nameless  sense  of  fear  ; 
And  from  the  cave  behind  I  seemed  to  hear 
Sounds  gathering  upward  !  —  accents  incomplete. 
And  stifled  shrieks  —  and  now^,  more  near  and  near, 
A  tumult  and  a  rush  of  thronging  feet 
The  cavern's  secret  depths  beneath  the  earth  did  beat. 


The  scene  was  changed,  and  away,  away,  away  ! 
Through  the  air  and  over  the  sea  we  sped, 
And  Cythna  in  my  sheltering  bosom  lay. 
And  the  winds  bore  me  ;  through  the  darkness  spread 
Around,  the  gaping  earth  then  vomited 
Legions  of  foul  and  ghastly  shapes,  which  hung 
Upon  my  flight ;  and  ever  as  we  fled, 
They  plucked  at  Cythna  —  soon  to  me  then  clung 
A  sense  of  actual  things  those  monstrous  dreams  among. 


And  I  lay  struggling  in  the  impotence 
Of  sleep,  while  outward  life  had  burst  its  bound, 
Though,  still  deluded,  strove  the  tortured  sense 
To  its  dire  wanderings  to  adapt  the  sound 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  71 

Which  in  the  light  of  morn  was  poured  around 
Our  dwelling  —  breathless,  pale,  and  unaware 
I  rose,  and  all  the  cottage  crowded  found 
With  armed  men,  whose  glittering  swords  were  bare, 
And  whose  degraded  limbs  the  tyrant's  garb  did  wear. 

VII. 

And  ere  with  rapid  lips  and  gathered  brow 
I  could  demand  the  cause  —  a  feeble  shriek  — 
It  was  a  feeble  shriek,  faint,  far,  and  low. 
Arrested  me  —  my  mien  grew  calm  and  meek, 
And,  grasping  a  small  knife,  I  went  to  seek 
That  voice  among  the  crowd  :  'twas  Cythna's  cry  ! 
Beneath  most  calm  resolve  did  agony  w^reak 
Its  whirlwind  rage  :  so  I  passed  quietly 
Till  I  beheld,  whei-e  bound,  that  dearest  child  did  he. 


I  started  to  behold  her,  for  delight 
And  exultation,  and  a  joyance  free, 
Solemn,  serene,  and  lofty,  filled  the  light 
Of  the  calm  smile  with  which  she  looked  on  me  : 
So  that  I  feared  some  brainless  ecstasy. 
Wrought  from  that  bitter  wo,  had  wildered  her  — 
"  Farewell !  farewell !"  she  said,  as  I  drew  nigh. 
"  At  first  my  peace  was  marred  by  this  strange  stir. 
Now  I  am  calm  as  truth  —  its  chosen  minister. 


"  Look  not  so,  Laon  —  say  farewell  in  hope  : 
These  bloody  men  are  but  the  slaves  who  bear 
Their  mistress  to  her  task  —  it  was  my  scope 
The  slavery  where  they  drag  me  now,  to  share, 
And  among  captives  willing  chains  to  wear 
Awhile  —  the  rest  thou  knowest  —  return,  dear  friend  ! 
Let  our  first  triumph  trample  the  despair 
Which  would  ensnare  us  now  :  for  in  the  end. 
In  victory  or  in  death  our  hopes  and  fears  must  blend." 


These  words  had  fallen  on  my  unheeding  ear, 
While  I  had  watched  the  motions  of  the  crew 
With  seeming  careless  glance ;  not  many  were 
Around  her,  for  their  comrades  just  withdrew 
To  guard  some  other  victim  —  so  I  drew 
My  knife,  and  with  one  impulse,  suddenly 
All  unaware  three  of  their  number  slew, 
And  grasped  a  fourth  by  the  throat,  and  with  loud  cry, 
My  countrymen  invoked  to  death,  or  liberty  ! 


72  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


What  followed  then,  I  know  not  —  for  a  stroke 
On  my  raised  arm  and  naked  head  came  down, 
Filling  my  eyes  Avith  blood  :  when  I  awoke, 
I  felt  that  they  had  bound  me  in  my  swoon. 
And  up  a  rock  which  overhangs  the  town, 
By  the  steep  path  were  bearing  me  :  below 
The  plain  was  filled  w^ith  slaughter  —  overthrown 
The  vineyards  and  the  harvests,  and  the  glow 
Of  blazing  roofs  shone  far  o'er  the  white  ocean's  flow. 


Upon  that  rock  a  mighty  column  stood, 
Whose  capital  seemed  sculptured  in  the  sky. 
Which  to  the  wanderers  o'er  the  solitude 
Of  distant  seas,  from  ages  long  gone  by. 
Had  been  a  landmark  ;  o'er  its  height  to  fly 
Scarcely  the  cloud,  the  vulture,  or  the  blast. 
Has  power  ;  and  when  the  shades  of  evening  lie 
On  earth  and  ocean,  its  carved  summits  cast 
The  sunken  daylight  far  through  the  aerial  waste. 


They  bore  me  to  a  cavern  in  the  hill 
Beneath  that  column,  and  unbound  me  there : 
And  one  did  strip  me  stark ;  and  one  did  fill 
A  vessel  from  the  putrid  pool ;  one  bare 
A  lighted  torch,  and  four  with  friendless  care 
Guided  my  steps  the  cavern-paths  along, 
Then  up  a  steep  and  dark  and  naiTOW^  stair 
We  wound,  until  the  torches'  fiery  tongue 
Amid  the  gushing  day  beamless  and  pallid  hung. 

XIV. 

They  raised  me  to  the  platform  of  the  pile, 
That  column's  dizzy  height :  the  gate  of  brass 
Through  which  they  thrust  me,  open  stood  the  while, 
As  to  its  ponderous  and  suspended  mass. 
With  chains  which  eat  into  the  flesh,  alas  ! 
With  brazen  links,  my  naked  limbs  they  bound  : 
The  grate,  as  they  departed  to  repass. 
With  horrid  clangor  fell,  and  the  far  sound 
Of  their  retiring  steps  in  the  dense  gloom  was  drowned. 


The  noon  was  calm  and  bright :  around  that  column 
The  overhanging  sky  and  circling  sea 
Spread  forth  in  silentness  profound  and  solemn 
The  darkness  of  brief  phrensy  cast  on  me, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  73 

So  that  I  knew  not  my  own  misery  : 
The'islands  and  the  mountains  in  the  day 
Like  clouds  reposed  afar  ;  and  I  could  see 
The  town  among  the  woods  below  that  lay, 
And  the  dark  rocks  which  bound  the  bright  and  glassy  bay. 


It  was  so  calm,  that  scarce  the  feathery  weed 
Sown  by  some  eagle  on  the  topmost  stone 
Swayed  in  the  air  :  so  bright,  that  noon  did  breed 
No  shado^v  in  the  sky  beside  mine  own  — 
Mine,  and  the  shadow  of  my  chain  alone. 
Below  the  smoke  of  roofs  involved  in  flame 
Rested  like  night,  all  else  was  cleai'ly  shown 
In  the  broad  glare,  yet  sound  to  me  none  came. 
But  of  the  living  blood  that  ran  within  my  frame. 


The  peace  of  madness  fled,  and  ah,  too  soon  ! 
A  ship  was  lying  on  the  sunny  main  ; 
Its  sails  were  flagging  in  the  breathless  noon ' — 
Its  shadow  lay  beyond  —  that  sight  again 
Waked,  w^ith  its  presence,  in  my  tranced  brain 
The  stings  of  a  known  sorrow,  keen  and  cold : 
I  knew  that  ship  bore  Cythna  o'er  the  plain 
Of  waters,  to  her  blighting  slavery  sold. 
And  watched  it  with  such  thoughts  as  must  remain  untold. 


I  watched,  until  the  shades  of  evening  wrapt 
Earth  like  an  exhalation  —  then  the  bark 
Moved,  for  that  calm  was  by  the  sunset  snapt. 
It  moved  a  speck  upon  the  ocean  dark  : 
Soon  the  wan  stars  came  forth,  and  I  could  mark 
Its  path  no  more  !  —  I  sought  to  close  mine  eyes, 
But,  like  the  balls,  their  lids  were  stiff  and  stark ; 
I  would  have  risen,  but,  ere  that  I  could  rise, 
My  parched  skin  was  split  with  piercing  agonies. 


I  gnawed  my  brazen  chain,  and  sought  to  sever 
Its  adamantine  links,  that  I  might  die  : 
O  Liberty  !  forgive  the  base  endeavor. 
Forgive  me,  if,  reserved  for  victory. 
The  champion  of  thy  faith  e'er  sought  to  fly.  — 
That  starry  night,  with  its  clear  silence,  sent 
Tameless  resolve  which  laughed  at  misery 
Into  my  soul  —  linked  remembrance  lent 
To  that  such  power,  to  me  such  a  severe  content. 


74  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


To  breathe,  to  be,  to  hope,  or  to  despair 
And  die,  I  questioned  not ;  nor,  though  the  sun 
Its  shafts  of  agony  kindling  through  the  air 
Moved  over  me,  nor  though  in  evening  dun, 
Or  when  the  stars  their  visible  courses  run, 
Or  morning,  the  wide  universe  was  spread 
In  dreary  calmness  round  me,  did  I  shun 
Its  presence,  nor  seek  refuge  with  the  dead 
From  one  faint  hope  whose  flower  a  dropping  poison  shed. 


Two  days  thus  passed  —  I  neither  raved  nor  died  — 
Thirst  raged  w^ithin  me,  like  a  scorpion's  nest 
Built  in  mine  entrails  :  I  had  spurned  aside 
The  water-vessel,  while  despair  possest 
My  thoughts,  and  now  no  drop  remained  !    The  uprest 
Of  the  third  sun  brought  hunger  —  but  the  crust 
Which  had  been  left,  w^as  to  my  craving  bi-east 
Fuel,  not  food.     I  chewed  the  bitter  dust, 
And  bit  my  bloodless  arm,  and  licked  the  brazen  rust. 


My  brain  began  to  fail  when  the  fourtli  mom 
Burst  o'er  the  golden  isles  —  a  fearful  sleep, 
Which  through  the  caverns  dreary  and  forlorn 
Of  the  riven  soul,  sent  its  foul  dreams  to  .sweep 
With  whirlwind  swiftness  —  a  fall  far  and  deep  — 
A  gulf,  a  void,  a  sense  of  senselessness  — 
These  things  dwelt  in  me,  even  as  shadows  keep 
Their  w^atch  in  some  dim  chamel's  loneliness, 
A  shoreless  sea,  a  sky  sunless  and  planetless  ! 


The  forms  which  peopled  this  terrific  trance 
I  well  remember  —  like  a  quire  of  devils, 
Around  me  they  involved  a  giddy  dance  ; 
Legions  seemed  gathering  from  the  misty  levels 
Of  ocean,  to  supply  those  ceaseless  revels. 
Foul,  ceaseless  shadows  :  thought  could  not  divide 
The  actual  world  from  the.se  entangling  evils, 
Which  so  bemocked  themselves,  that  I  descried 
All  shapes  like  mine  own  self,  hideously  multiplied. 


The  sense  of  day  and  night,  of  false  and  true, 
Was  dead  within  me.     Yet  two  visions  burst 
That  darkness  —  one,  as  since  that  hour  I  knew, 
Was  not  a  phantom  of  the  realms  accurst, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  75 

Where  then  my  spirit  dwelt  —  but  of  the  first 
I  know  not  yet,  was  it  a  dream  or  no. 
But  both,  though  not  distincter,  were  immersed 
In  hues  -which,  when  through  memory's  waste  they  flow, 
Make  their  divided  streams  more  bright  and  rapid  now. 


Methought  that  gate  was  Hfted,  and  the  seven 
Who  brought  me  thither,  four  stiff  corpses  bare, 
And  from  the  frieze  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven 
Hung  them  on  high  by  the  entangled  hair : 
Swarthy  were  three  —  the  fourth  v\'as  very  fair  : 
As  they  retired,  the  golden  moon  upsprung, 
And  eagerly,  out  in  the  giddy  air. 
Leaning  that  I  might  eat,  I  stretched  and  clung 
Over  the  shapeless  depth  in  w^hich  those  corpses  hung. 


A  woman's  shape,  now  lank  and  cold  and  blue. 
The  dwelling  of  the  many  colored  worm, 
Hung  there,  the  white  and  hollow  cheek  I  drew 
To  my  dry  lips  —  what  radiance  did  inform 
Those  horny  eyes  ?  whose  was  that  withered  form  ? 
Alas,  alas  !  it  seemed  that  Cythna's  ghost 
Laughed  in  those  looks,  and  that  the  flesh  was  warm 
Within  my  teeth  !  —  a  whirlwind  keen  as  frost 
Then  in  its  sinking  gulfs  my  sickening  spirit  tost. 


Then  seemed  it  that  a  tameless  hurricane 
Arose,  and  bore  me  in  its  dark  career 
Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  stars  that  wane 
On  the  verge  of  formless  space  —  it  languished  there, 
And,  dying,  left  a  silence  lone  and  drear. 
More  horrible  than  famine :  in  the  deep 
The  shape  of  an  old  man  did  then  appear, 
Stately  and  beautiful ;  that  dreadful  sleep 
His  heavenly  smiles  dispersed,  and  I  could  wake  and  weep. 


And,  when  the  blinding  tears  had  fallen,  1  saw 
That  column,  and  those  corpses,  and  the  moon, 
And  felt  the  poisonous  tooth  of  hunger  gnaw 
My  vitals  :  I  rejoiced,  as  if  the  boon 
Ot  senseless  death  would  be  accorded  soon  : 
When  from  that  stony  gloom  a  voice  arose. 
Solemn  and  sweet  as  when  low  winds  attune 
The  midnight  pines ;  the  grate  did  then  unclose, 
And  on  that  reverend  form  tlie  moonlight  did  repose. 


76  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


He  struck  my  chains,  and  gently  spake  and  smiled : 

As  they  were  loosened  by  that  Hermit  old, 

Mine  eyes  were  of  their  madness  half  beguiled, 

To  answer  those  kind  looks.     He  did  enfold 

His  giant  arms  around  me,  to  uphold 

My  wretched  frame,  my  scorched  limbs  he  wound 

In  linen  moist  and  balmy,  and  as  cold 

As  dew  to  drooping  leaves :  the  chain,  with  sound 

Like  earthquake,  through  the  chasm  of  that  steep  stair  did  bound 


As,  lifting  me,  it  fell !     What  next  I  heard, 
"Were  billows  leaping  on  the  harbor  bar, 
And  the  shrill  sea-wind,  w^hose  breath  idly  stirred 
My  hair  ;  I  looked  abroad,  and  saw  a  star 
Shining  beside  a  sail,  and  distant  far 
That  mountain  and  its  column,  the  known  mark 
Of  those  w^ho  in  the  wide  deep  -wandering  are. 
So  that  I  feared  some  Spirit,  fell,  and  dark, 
In  trance  had  laid  me  thus  within  a  fiendish  bark. 


For  now,  indeed,  over  the  salt  sea  billow 
I  sailed :  yet  dared  not  look  upon  the  shape 
Of  him  who  ruled  the  helm,  although  the  pillow 
For  my  Ught  head  was  hollowed  in  his  lap. 
And  my  bare  limbs  his  mantle  did  enwrap. 
Fearing  it  was  a  fiend  :  at  last,  he  bent 
O'er  me  his  aged  face  ;  as  if  to  snap 
Those  dreadful  thoughts  the  gentle  grandsire  bent, 
And  to  my  inmost  soul  his  soothing  looks  he  sent. 


A  soft  and  healing  potion  to  my  lips 
At  intervals  he  raised  —  now  looked  on  high, 
To  mark  if  yet  the  starry  giant  dips 
His  zone  in  the  dim  sea  —  now  cheeringly, 
Though  he  said  little,  did  he  speak  to  me. 
"  It  is  a  friend  beside  thee  —  take  good  cheer. 
Poor  victim,  thou  art  now  at  liberty  !" 
I  joj^^ed  as  those  a  human  tone  to  hear. 
Who  m  cells  deep  and  lone  have  languished  many  a  year. 


A  dim  and  feeble  joy,  whose  glimpses  oft 
Were  quenched  in  a  relapse  of  wildering  dreams. 
Yet  still  methought  we  sailed,  until  aloft 
The  stars  of  night  grew  pallid,  and  the  beams 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  77 


Of  morn  descended  on  the  ocean-streams, 
And  still  that  aged  man,  t-o  grand  and  mild, 
Tended  me,  even  as  some  sick  mother  seems 
To  hangf  in  hope  over  a  dying  child — 
Till  in  the  azure  East  darkness  again  was  piled. 


And  then  the  night-wind  steaming  from  the  shore, 
Sent  odors  dying  sweet  across  the  sea. 
And  the  swift  boat  the  little  waves  which  bore, 
Were  cut  by  its  keen  keel,  though  slantingly  ; 
Soon  I  could  hear  the  leaves  sigh,  and  could  see 
The  myrtle-blossoms  staiTing  the  dim  grove, 
As  past  the  pebbly  beach  the  boat  did  iiee 
On  sidelong  wing  into  a  silent  cove, 
"Where  ebon  pines  a  shade  under  the  starlight  wove. 


CANTO  IV. 


The  old  man  took  the  oars,  and  soon  the  bark 
Smote  on  the  beach  beside  a  tower  of  stone  ; 
It  was  a  crumbling  heap,  whose  portal  dark 
With  blooming  ivy  trails  was  overgrown  ; 
Upon  whose  floor  the  spangling  sands  were  strown, 
And  rarest  sea  shells,  which  tUe  eternal  flood. 
Slave  to  the  mother  of  the  months,  had  thrown 
Within  the  walls  of  that  gi'ay  tower,  which  stood 
A  changeling  of  man's  art,  nursed  amid  Nature's  brood. 


When  the  old  man  his  boat  had  anchored. 
He  wound  me  in  his  arms  with  tender  care, 
And  very  few,  but  kindly  vs^ords  he  said, 
And  bore  me  through  the  tower  adown  a  stair. 
Whose  smooth  descent  some  ceaseless  step  to  wear 
For  many  a  year  had  fallen.     We  came  at  last 
To  a  small  chamber,  which  with  mosses  rare 
Was  tapestried,  where  me  his  soft  hands  placed 
Upon  a  couch  of  grass  and  oak-leaves  interlaced. 


The  moon  was  darting  through  the  lattices 
Its  yellow  light,  warm  as  the  beams  of  day  — 
So  warm,  that  to  admit  the  dewy  breeze, 
Tlie  old  man  opened  them  ;  the  moonlight  lay 


78  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

• 

Upon  a  lake  whose  waters  wove  their  play- 
Even  to  the  threshold  of  that  lonely  home : 
Within  was  seen  in  the  dim  wavering  ray, 
The  antique  sculptured  roof,  and  many  a  tome 
Whose  lore  had  made  that  sage  all  that  he  had  become. 


The  rock-built  barrier  of  the  sea  was  past. 

And  I  was  on  the  margin  of  a  lake, 

A  lonely  lake,  amid  the  forests  vast 

And  snowy  mountains  :  did  my  spirit  wake 

From  sleep,  as  many-colored  as  the  snake 

That  girds  eternity  1  in  life  and  truth, 

Might  not  my  heart  its  cravings  ever  slake? 

Was  Cythna  then  a  dream,  and  all  my  youth, 

And  all  its  hopes  and  fears  and  all  its  joy  and  ruth  1 


Thus  madness  came  again  —  a  milder  madness. 
Which  darkened  naught  but  time's  unquiet  flow 
With  supernatural  shades  of  clinging  sadness  ; 
That  gentle  Hermit,  in  my  helpless  woe. 
By  my  sick  couch  was  busy  to  and  fro. 
Like  a  strong  spirit  ministrant  of  good  : 
When  I  w^as  healed,  he  led  me  forth  to  show 
The  wonders  of  his  sylvan  solitude, 
And  we  together  sate  by  that  isle-fretted  flood. 


He  knevs^  his  soothing  words  to  weave  with  skill 
From  all  my  madness  told  ;  like  mine  own  heart, 
Of  Cythna  would  he  question  me,  until 
That  thrilling  name  had  ceased  to  make  me  start. 
From  his  familiar  lips  —  it  was  not  art. 
Of  wisdom  and  of  justice  when  he  spoke  — 
When  'mid  soft  looks  of  pity  there  would  dart 
A  glance  as  keen  as  is  the  lightning's  stroke 
When  it  doth  rive  the  knots  of  some  ancestral  oak. 


Thus  slowly  from  my  brain  the  darkness  rolled. 
My  thoughts  their  due  array  did  reassume 
Through  the  enchantments  of  that  Hermit  old ; 
Then  I  bethought  me  of  the  glorious  doom 
Of  those  who  sternly  struggle  to  relume 
The  lamp  of  Hope  o'er  man's  bewildered  lot, 
And,  sitting  by  the  waters,  in  the  gloom 
Of  eve,  to  that  friend's  heart  I  told  my  thought — 
That  heart  which  had  grown  old,  but  had  corrupted  not. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  79 


That  hoary  man  had  spent  his  livelong  age 
In  converse  vi^ith  the  dead,  who  leave  the  stamp 
Of  ever-burning  thoughts  on  many  a  page, 
When  they  are  gone  into  the  senseless  damp 
Of  graves  ;  his  spirit  thus  became  a  lamp 
Of  splendor,  like  to  those  on  which  it  fed. 
Through  peopled  haunts,  the  City  and  the  Camp, 
Deep  thirst  for  knowledge  had  his  footsteps  led, 
And  all  the  ways  of  men  among  mankind  he  read. 

IX. 

But  custom  maketh  blind  and  obdurate 
The  loftiest  hearts  :  he  had  beheld  the  w^oe 
In  which  mankind  was  bound,  but  deemed  that  fate 
Which  made  them  abject,  would  preserve  them  so  ; 
And  in  such  faith,  .some  steadfest  joy  to  know. 
He  sought  this  cell :  but,  when  fame  went  abroad 
That  one  in  Argolis  did  undergo 
Torture  for  liberty,  and  that  the  crowd 
High  truths  from  gifted  lips  had  heard  and  understood  ; 


And  that  the  multitude  was  gathering  wide, 
His  spirit  leaped  within  his  aged  frame  ; 
In  lonely  peace  he  could  no  more  abide. 
But  to  the  land  on  which  the  victor's  flame 
Had  fed,  my  native  land,  the  Hermit  came  : 
Each  heart  was  there  a  shield,  and  every  tongue 
Was  as  a  sword  of  truth  —  young  Laon's  name 
Rallied  their  secret  hopes,  though  tyrants  sung 
Hynans  of  triumphant  joy  our  scattered  tribes  among. 


He  came  to  the  lone  column  on  the  rock. 
And  with  his  sweet  and  mighty  eloquence 
The  hearts  of  tho.se  who  watched  it  did  unlock, 
And  made  them  melt  in  tears  of  penitence. 
They  gave  him  entrance  free  to  bear  me  thence. 
"  Since  this,"  the  old  man  said,  "  seven  years  are  spent, 
While  slowly  truth  on  thy  benighted  sense 
Has  crept ;  the  hope  which  wildered  it  has  lent, 
Meanwhile,  to  me  the  power  of  a  sublime  intent. 


"  Yes,  from  the  records  of  my  youthful  state, 
And  from  the  lore  of  bards  and  sages  old, 
From  whatsoe'er  my  wakened  thoughts  create 
Out  of  the  hopes  of  thine  aspirings  bold, 


80  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Have  I  collected  language  to  unfold 
Truth  to  my  countrymen  ;  from  shore  to  shore 
Doctrines  of  human  power  my  words  have  told ; 
They  have  been  heard,  and  men  aspire  to  more 
Than  they  have  ever  gained  or  ever  lost  of  yore. 


"  In  secret  chambers  parents  read,  and  weep, 
My  writings  to  their  babes  no  longer  blind  ; 
And  young  men  gather  when  their  tyrants  sleep, 
And  vows  of  faith  each  to  the  other  bind  ; 
And  marriageable  maidens,  who  have  pined 
With  love,  till  life  seemed  melting  through  their  look, 
A  w^armer  zeal,  a  nobler  hope,  now  find  ; 
And  every  bosom  thus  is  w^rapt  and  shook, 
Like  autumn's  myriad  leaves  in  one  swoln  mountain  brook. 


"  The  tyrants  of  the  Golden  City  tremble 
At  voices  w^hich  are  heard  about  the  streets  ; 
The  ministers  of  fraud  can  scarce  dissemble 
The  lies  of  their  own  heart ;  but  when  one  meets 
Another  at  the  shrine,  he  inly  weets, 
Though  he  says  nothing,  that  the  truth  is  known  ; 
Murderers  are  pale  upon  the  judgement-seats. 
And  gold  grows  vile  even  to  the  wealthy  crone, 
And  laughter  fills  the  Fane,  and  curses  shake  the  Throne. 


"  Kind  thoughts  and  mighty  hopes  and  gentle  deeds 
Abound,  for  fearless  love  and  the  pure  law 
Of  mild  equality  and  peace,  succeeds 
To  faiths  which  long  have  held  the  world  in  awe, 
Bloody,  and  false,  and  cold :  —  as  whirlpools  draw 
All  wrecks  of  Ocean  to  their  chasm,  the  sway 
Of  thy  strong  genius,  Laon,  which  foresaw 
This  hope,  compels  all  spirits  to  obey, 
Which  round  thy  secret  strength  now  throng  in  wide  array. 


"  For  I  have  been  thy  passive  instrument" — 
(As  thus  the  old  man  spake,  his  countenance 
Gleamed  on  me  like  a  spirit's)  —  "  thou  hast  lent 
To  me,  to  all,  the  power  to  advance 
Toward  this  unforeseen  deliverance 
From  our  ancestral  chains  —  aye,  thou  didst  rear 
That  lamp  of  hope  on  high,  which  time,  nor  chance, 
Nor  change,  may  not  extinguish,  and  my  share 
Of  good  was  o'er  the  world  its  gathered  beams  to  bear. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  81 


"  But  I,  alas  !  am  both  unknown  and  old, 
And,  though  the  woof  of  wisdom  I  know  well 
To  dye  in  hues  of  language,  I  am  cold 
In  seeming,  and  the  hopes  which  inly  dwell 
My  manners  note  that  I  did  long  repel ; 
But  Laon's  name  to  the  tumultuous  throng 
Were  like  the  star  whose  beams  the  waves  compel 
And  tempests,  and  his  soul-subduing  tongue 
Were  as  a  lance  to  quell  the  mailed  crest  of  wrong. 


"  Perchance  blood  need  not  flow,  if  thou  at  length 

Wouldst  rise ;  perchance  the  very  slaves  would  spare 

Their  brethren  and  themselves ;  great  is  the  strength 

Of  words  —  for  lately  did  a  maiden  fair, 

Who  from  her  childhood  has  been  taught  to  beai' 

The  tyrant's  heaviest  yoke,  arise,  and  make 

Her  sex  the  law  of  truth  and  freedom  hear ; 

And  with  these  quiet  words  — '  for  thine  own  sake 

I  prithee  spare  me,'  —  did  with  ruth  so  take 


"  All  hearts,  that  even  the  torturer  who  had  bound 
Her  meek  calm  frame,  ere  it  was  yet  impaled, 
Loosened  her  w^eeping  then  ;  nor  could  be  found 
One  human  hand  to  harm  her  —  unassailed 
Therefore  she  walks  through  the  gi'eat  City,  veiled 
In  virtue's  adamantine  eloquence, 
'Gainst  scorn  and  death  and  pain  thus  trebly  mailed, 
And  blending  in  the  smiles  of  that  defence 
The  Serpent  and  the  Dove,  Wisdom  and  Innocence. 


"  The  wild-eyed  women  throng  around  her  path : 
From  their  luxurious  dungeons,  from  the  dust 
Of  meaner  thralls,  from  the  oppressor's  wrath. 
Or  the  caresses  of  his  sated  lust, 
They  congregate :  in  her  they  put  their  trust ; 
The  tyrants  send  their  armed  slaves  to  quell 
Her  po\yer  :  they,  even  like  a  thunder  gust 
Caught  by  some  forest,  bend  beneath  the  spell 
Of  that  young  maiden's  speech,  and  to  their  chiefs  rebel. 


"  Thus  she  doth  equal  laws  and  justice  teach 
To  woman,  outraged  and  polluted  long  ; 
Gathering  the  sweetest  fruit  in  humaji  reach 
For  those  fair  hands  now  free,  while  aimed  wrong 
fi 


82  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Trembles  before  her  look,  though  it  be  strong- ; 
Thousands  thus  dwell  beside  hei*,  virgins  bright, 
And  matrons  with  their  babes,  a  stately  throng  ! 
Lovers  renew  the  vows  which  they  did  plight 
In  early  faith,  and  hearts  long  parted  now  unite. 


"  And  homeless  orphans  find  a  home  near  her. 
And  those  poor  victims  of  the  proud,  no  less. 
Fair  wrecks,  on  whom  the  smiling  world  vs^ith  stir, 
Thrusts  the  redemption  of  its  wickedness  : 
In  squalid  huts,  and  in  its  palaces 
Sits  Lust  alone,  while  o'er  the  land  is  borne 
Her  voice,  whose  aw^ful  sweetness  doth  repress 
All  evil,  and  her  foes  relenting  turn, 
And  cast  the  vote  of  love  in  hope's  abandoned  urn. 


"  So  in  the  populous  City,  a  young  maiden 
Has  baffled  Havoc  of  the  prey  which  he 
Marks  as  his  own,  whene'er  with  chains  o'erladen 
Men  make  them  arms  to  hurl  dov^rii  tyranny, 
False  arbiter  between  the  bound  and  free  : 
And  o'er  the  land,  in  hamlets  and  in  towns 
The  multitudes  collect  tumultuously, 
And  throng  in  arms  ;  but  tyranny  disowns 
Their  claim,  and  gathers  strength  around  its  trembling  thrones. 


"  Blood  soon,  although  unwiUingly,  to  shed 
The  free  can  not  forbear  —  the  CLueen  of  Slaves, 
The  hood-winked  angel  of  the  bhnd  and  dead. 
Custom,  with  iron  mace  points  to  the  graves 
"Where  her  own  standard  desolately  waves 
Over  the  dust  of  Prophets  and  of  Kings. 
Many  yet  stand  in  her  aiTay  —  'she  paves 
Her  path  with  human  hearts,'  and  o'er  it  flings 
The  wildering  gloom  of  her  immeasurable  wings. 


"  There  is  a  plain  beneath  the  City's  wall. 
Bounded  by  misty  mountains,  w^ide  and  vast; 
Millions  there  lift  at  Freedom's  thrilling  call 
Ten  thousand  standards  wide  ;  they  load  the  blast 
"Which  bears  one  sound  of  many  voices  past, 
And  startles  on  his  throne  their  sceptred  foe  : 
He  sits  amid  his  idle  pomp  aghast. 
And  that  his  power  hath  passed  away  doth  know — 
"Why  pause  the  victor  swords  to  seal  his  overthrow  ? 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  83 


"  The  tyrant's  guards  resistance  yet  maintain  : 
Fearless  and  fierce,  and  liard  as  beasts  of  blood ; 
They  stand  a  speck  amid  the  peopled  plain  ; 
Carnage  and  ruin  have  been  made  their  food 
Prom  infancy  —  ill  has  become  their  good. 
And  for  its  hateful  sake  their  will  has  wove 
The  chains  which  eat  their  hearts  —  the  multitude 
Surrounding  them,  with  words  of  human  love, 
Seek  from  their  own  decay  their  stubborn  minds  to  move. 


"  Over  the  land  is  felt  a  sudden  pause, 
As  night  and  day  those  ruthless  bands  around 
The  watch  of  love  is  i\ept :  a  trance  which  awes 
The  thoughts  of  men  with  hope  as  when  the  sound 
Of  whirl  wind,  whose  fierce  blasts  the  waves  and  clouds  confound, 
Dies  suddenly,  the  mariner  in  fear 
Feels  silence  sink  upon  his  heart  —  thus  bound. 
The  conquerors  pause,  and  oh  !  may  freemen  ne'er 
Clasp  the  relentless  knees  of  Dread,  the  murderer ! 


"  If  blood  be  shed,  'tis  but  a  change  and  choice 
Of  bonds,  from  slavery  to  cowardice — 
A  wretched  fall !  —  uplift  thy  charmed  voice, 
Pour  on  those  evil  men  the  love  that  lies 
Hovering  within  those  spirit  soothing  eyes  — 
Arise,  my  friend,  farewell !"  —  As  thus  he  spake, 
From  the  green  earth  lightly  I  did  arise, 
As  one  out  of  dim  dreams  that  doth  awake, 
And  looked  upon  the  depth  of  that  reposing  lake. 


I  saw  my  countenance  reflected  there  ; 
And  then  my  youth  fell  on  me  like  a  wind 
Descending  on  still  waters  —  my  thin  hair 
Was  prematurely  gi'ay,  my  face  was  lined, 
With  channels,  sucli  as  sutFering  leaves  behind, 
Not  age  ;  my  brow  was  pale,  but  in  my  cheek 
And  lips  a  flush  of  gnawing  fire  did  find 
Their  food  and  dwelling  ;  tliough  mine  eyes  might  speak 
A  subtle  mind  and  strong  within  a  frame  thus  weak. 


And  though  their  lustre  now  was  spent  and  faded, 
Yet  in  my  hollow  looks  and  witiiered  mien 
The  likeness  of  a  shape  for  which  was  braided 
The  brightest  woof  of  genius,  still  w^as  .seeij-^ 


84  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

One  who,  methought,  had  gone  from  the  world's  scene, 
And  left  it  vacant  —  'twas  her  lover's  face — 
It  might  resemble  her  —  it  once  had  been 
The  mirror  of  her  thoughts,  and  still  the  grace 
Which  her  mind's  shadow  cast,  left  there  a  lingering  trace. 


What  then  was  I  ?     She  slumbered  with  the  dead. 
Glory  and  joy  and  peace  had  come  and  gone. 
Doth  the  cloud  perish,  when  the  beams  are  fled 
Which  steeped  its  skirts  in  gold  ?  or  dark,  and  lone. 
Doth  it  not  through  the  paths  of  night  unknown. 
On  outspread  wings  of  its  own  wind  upborne. 
Pour  rain  upon  the  earth  ?  the  stars  are  shown. 
When  the  cold  moon  sharpens  her  silver  horn 
Under  the  sea,  and  make  the  w^ide  night  not  forlorn. 


Strengthened  in  heart,  yet  sad,  that  aged  man 
I  left,  with  interchange  of  looks  and  tears. 
And  lingering  speech,  and  to  the  Camp  began 
My  way.     O'er  many  a  mountain  chain  which  rears 
Its  hundred  crests  aloft,  my  spirit  bears 
My  frame ;  o'er  many  a  dale  and  many  a  moor. 
And  gayly  now  me  seems  serene  eailh  wears 
The  bloomy  spring's  star-bright  investiture, 
A  vision  which  aught  sad  from  sadness  might  allure. 


My  powers  revived  within  me,  and  I  went 
As  one  whom  winds  waft  o'er  the  bending  grass, 
Through  many  a  vale  of  that  broad  continent. 
At  night  when  I  reposed,  fair  dreams  did  pass 
Before  my  pillow ;  my  own  Cythna  was 
Not  like  a  child  of  death,  among  them  ever ; 
When  I  arose  from  rest,  a  vs^oeful  mass 
That  gentlest  sleep  seemed  from  my  life  to  sever. 
As  if  the  light  of  youth  were  not  withdrawn  for  ever. 


Aye,  as  I  went,  that  maiden,  who  had  reared 
The  torch  of  truth  afar,  of  ■whose  high  deeds 
The  Hermit  in  his  pilgrimage  had  heard, 
Haunted  my  thoughts.     Ah,  Hope  its  sickness  feeds 
With  whatsoe'er  it  finds,  or  flowers  or  weeds  ! 
Could  she  be  Cythna  ?     Was  that  corpse  a  shade 
Such  as  self-torturing  thought  from  madness  breeds  ? 
Why  was  this  hope  not  torture  ?  yet  it  made 
A  light  around  my  steps  which  would  not  ever  fade. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  85 


CANTO  V. 


Over  the  utmost  hill  at  length  I  sped, 
A  snowy  steep  :  the  moon  was  hanging  low 
Over  the  Asian  mountains,  and  outspread 
The  plain,  the  city  and  the  camp  below, 
Skirted  the  midnight  ocean's  glimmering  flow, 
The  city's  moonlit  spires  and  myriad  lamps, 
Like  stars  in  a  sublunar  sky  did  glow, 
And  fires  blazed  far  amid  the  scattered  camps, 
Like  springs  of  flame,  which  burst  where'er  swift  earthquake 
stamps. 


All  slept  but  those  in  watchful  arms  who  stood, 
And  those  who  sate  tending  the  beacon's  light. 
And  the  few  sounds  from  that  vast  multitude 
Made  silence  more  profound.     Oh,  what  a  might 
Of  human  thought  was  cradled  in  that  night ! 
How  many  hearts  impenetrably  veiled 
Beat  underneath  its  shade,  what  secret  fight 
Evil  and  good,  in  woven  passions  mailed. 
Waged  through  that  silent  throng  —  a  war  that  never  failed! 


And  now  the  Power  of  Good  held  victory, 
So,  through  the  labyrinth  of  many  a  tent. 
Among  the  silent  millions  who  did  lie 
In  innocent  sleep,  exultingly  I  went ; 
The  moon  had  left  heaven  desert  now,  but  lent 
From  eastern  morn  the  first  faint  lustre  showed 
An  armed  youth  —  over  his  spear  he  bent 
His  downward  face.  —  "  A  friend  !"  I  cried  aloud. 
And  quickly  common  hopes  made  freemen  understood. 


I  sate  beside  him  while  the  morning  beam 
Crept  slowly  over  heaven,  and  talked  with  him 
Of  those  immortal  hopes,  a  glorious  theme  ! 
Which  led  us  forth,  until  the  stars  grew^  dim  : 
And  all  the  while,  mcthought,  his  voice  did  swim, 
As  if  it  drowned  in  remembrance  were 
Of  thoughts  which  made  the  moist  eyes  overbrim  : 
At  last,  when  daylight  'gan  to  fill  the  air, 
He  looked  on  me,  and  cried  in  wonder,  "  Thou  art  liore !' 


86  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Then,  suddenly,  I  knew  it  was  the  youth 
In  whom  its  earliest  hopes  my  spirit  found  ; 
But  envious  tongues  had  stained  his  spotless  truth, 
And  thoughtless  pride  his  love  in  silence  bound, 
And  shame  and  sorrow  mine  in  toils  had  wound, 
While  he  was  innocent,  and  I  deluded. 
The  truth  now  came  upon  me  :  on  the  ground 
Tears  of  repenting  joy,  which  fast  intruded, 
Fell  fast,  and  o'er  its  peace  our  mingling  spirits  brooded. 


Thus,  while  with  rapid  lips  and  earnest  eyes 
We  talked,  a  sound  of  sweeping  conflict  spread. 
As  from  the  earth  did  suddenly  arise  ; 
From  every  tent,  roused  by  that  clamor  dread, 
Our  bands  outsprung  and  seized  their  arms  :  we  sped 
Toward  the  sound  :  our  tribes  were  gathering  far, 
Those  sanguine  slaves  amid  ten  thousand  dead 
Stabbed  in  their  sleep,  trampled  in  treacherous  war. 
The  gentle  hearts  whose  power  their  lives  had  sought  to  spare. 


Like  rabid  snakes,  that  sting  some  gentle  child 
Who  brings  them  food,  when  winter  false  and  fair 
Allures  them  forth  with  its  cold  smiles,  so  wild 
They  rage  among  the  camp  ;  they  overbear 
The  patriot  hosts  —  confusion,  then  despair. 
Descends  like  night  —  when  "  Laon  !"  one  did  cry  : 
Like  a  bright  ghost  from  heaven  that  shout  did  scai-e 
The  slaves,  and,  widening  through  the  vaulted  sky, 
Seemed  sent  from  earth  to  heaven  in  sign  of  victory. 


In  sudden  panic  those  false  murderers  fled. 
Like  insect  tribes  before  the  northern  gale  : 
But,  swifter  still,  our  hosts  encompassed 
Their  shattered  ranks,  and  in  a  craggy  vale, 
Where  even  their  fierce  despair  might  naught  avail. 
Hemmed  them  around  !  —  and  then  revenge  and  fear 
Made  the  high  virtue  of  the  patriots  fail  : 
One  pointed  on  his  foe  the  mortal  spear  — 
I  rushed  before  its  point  and  cried,  "  Forbear,  forbear  !'' 


The  spear  transfixed  my  arm  that  was  uplifted 

In  swift  expostulation,  and  the  blood 

Gushed  round  its  point :  I  smiled,  and  —  "  Oh  !  thou  gifted 

With  eloquence  which  shall  not  be  withstood, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  87 

Flow  thus  !"  I  cried  in  joy,  "  thou  vital  flood, 
Until  my  heart  be  dry,  ere  thus  the  cause 
For  which  thou  wert  aught  worthy  be  subdued  : 
Ah,  ye  are  pale  —  ye  weep  —  your  passions  pause  — 
'Tis  well !  ye  feel  the  truth  of  Love's  benignant  laws. 


"  Soldiers,  our  brethren  and  our  friends  are  slain. 
Ye  murdered  them,  1  think,  as  they  did  sleep  ! 
Alas  !  what  have  ye  done  ?    The  slightest  pain 
Which  ye  might  suffer,  there  were  eyes  to  weep  ; 
But  ye  have  quenched  them :  there  were  smiles  to  steep 
Your  hearts  in  balm,  but  they  are  lost  in  woe  ; 
And  those  whom  Love  did  set  his  watch  to  keep 
Around  your  tents  Truth's  freedom  to  bestow, 
Ye  stabbed  as  they  did  sleep  —  but  they  forgive  ye  now. 

XI. 

"  O  wherefore  should  ill  ever  flow  from  ill. 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  for  ever  breed  ? 
"We  all  are  brethren  —  even  the  slaves  who  kill 
For  hire,  are  men  ;  and  to  avenge  misdeed 
On  the  misdoer,  doth  but  Misery  feed 
With  her  own  broken  heart !     O  Earth,  O  Heaven  ! 
And  thou,  dread  Nature,  which  to  every  deed 
And  all  that  lives,  or  is  to  be,  hath  given, 
Even  as  to  thee  have  these  done  ill,  and  arc  forgiven. 


XII. 

"  Join  then  your  hands  and  hearts,  and  let  the  past 
Be  as  a  grave  which  gives  not  up  its  dead 
To  evil  thoughts."  — A  film  then  overcast 
My  sense  with  dimness,  for  the  wound,  which  bled 
Freshly,  swift  shadows  o'er  mine  eyes  had  shed. 
"When  I  awoke,  I  lay  'mid  friends  and  foes, 
And  earnest  countenances  on  me  shed 
The  light  of  questioning  looks,  while  one  did  close 
My  wound  with  balmiest  herbs,  and  soothed  me  to  repose ; 


And  one,  whose  spear  had  pierced  me,  leaned  beside 
With  quivering  lips  and  humid  eyes  ;  and  all 
Seemed  like  some  brothers  on  a  journey  wide 
Gone  forth,  whom  now  strange  meeting  did  befall 
In  a  strange  land,  round  one  whom  tliey  might  call 
Their  friend,  their  chief,  their  father,  for  assay 
Of  peril,  which  had  saved  them  from  the  thrall 
Of  death,  now  suffering.     Thus  the  vast  array 
Of  those  fraternal  bands  were  reconciled  that  day. 


88  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Lifting  the  thunder  of  their  acclamation 
Toward  the  city,  then  the  multitude, 
And  I  among  them,  went  in  joy — a  nation 
Made  free  by  love  —  a  mighty  brotherhood 
Linked  by  a  jealous  interchange  of  good  : 
A  glorious  pageant,  more  magnificent 
Than  kingly  slaves,  arrayed  in  gold  and  blood, 
When  they  return  from  carnage,  and  are  sent 
Li  triumph  bright  beneath  the  populous  battlement. 


Afar,  the  city  walls  were  thronged  on  high. 
And  myriads  on  each  giddy  turret  clung, 
And  to  each  spire  far  lessening  in  the  sky, 
Bright  pennons  on  the  idle  winds  were  hung ; 
As  w^e  approached,  a  shout  of  joyance  sprung 
At  once  from  all  the  crowd,  as  if  the  vast 
And  peopled  earth  its  boundless  skies  among 
The  sudden  clamor  of  delight  had  cast, 
When  from  before  its  face  some  general  wreck  had  past. 


Our  armies  through  the  city's  hundred  gates 
Were  poured,  like  brooks  which  to  the  rocky  lair 
Of  some  deep  lake,  whose  silence  them  awaits. 
Throng  from  the  mountains  w^hen  the  storms  are  there ; 
And,  as  we  passed  through  the  calm  sunny  air, 
A  thousand  ttower-inwoven  crowns  were  shed, 
The  token  flowers  of  truth  and  freedom  fair, 
And  fairest  hands  bound  them  on  many  a  head. 
Those  angels  of  love's  heaven,  that  over  all  was  spread. 


I  trod  as  one  tranced  in  some  rapturous  vision : 
Those  bloody  hands  so  lately  reconciled, 
Were,  ever  as  they  went,  by  the  contrition 
Of  anger  turned  to  love  from  ill  beguiled. 
And  every  one  on  them  more  gently  smiled. 
Because  they  had  done  evil :  the  sweet  awe 
Of  such  mild  looks  made  their  own  hearts  grow  mild. 
And  did  with  soft  attraction  ever  draw 
Their  spirits  to  the  love  of  Freedom's  equal  law. 


And  they,  and  all,  in  one  loud  symphony 
My  name  with  Liberty  commingling,  lifted, 
"  The  friend  and  the  preserver  of  the  free  ! 
The  parent  of  this  joy  !"  —  and  fair  eyes,  gifted 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  89 

With  feelings  caught  from  one  who  had  uplifted 
The  light  of  a  great  spirit,  round  me  shone  ; 
And  all  the  shapes  of  this  grand  scenery  shifted 
Like  restless  clouds  before  the  steadfast  sun  : 
"  Where  was  that  maid  ?"  I  asked,  but  it  was  known  of  none. 


Laone  "was  the  name  her  love  had  chosen, 
For  she  w^as  nameless,  and  her  birth  none  knew : 
Where  -was  Laone  now  ?  —  The  words  were  frozen 
Within  my  lips  with  fear  ;  but  to  subdue 
Such  dreadful  hope,  to  my  great  task  was  due. 
And  when  at  length  one  brought  reply,  that  she 
To-morrow  would  appear,  I  then  withdrew 
To  judge  what  need  for  that  great  throng  might  be. 
For  now  the  stars  came  thick  over  the  twilight  sea. 


Yet  need  was  none  for  rest  or  food  to  care. 
Even  though  that  multitude  was  passing  great. 
Since  each  one  for  the  other  did  prepare 
All  kindly  succor.  —  Therefore  to  the  gate 
Of  the  imperial  house,  now  desolate, 
I  passed,  and  there  was  found  aghast,  alone, 
The  fallen  tyrant !  —  Silently  he  sate 
Upon  the  footstool  of  his  golden  throne, 
Which,  starred  with  sunny  gems,  in  its  own  lustre  shone. 


Alone,  but  for  one  child,  who  led  before  him 
A  graceful  dance  :  the  only  living  thing 
Of  all  the  crowd,  which  thither  to  adore  him 
Flocked  yesterday,  who  solace  sought  to  bring 
In  his  abandonment !  —  She  knew  the  king 
Had  praised  her  dance  of  yore,  and  now  she  wove 
Its  circles,  aye  weeping  and  murmuring 
'Mid  her  sad  task  of  unregarded  love. 
That  to  no  smiles  it  might  his  speechless  sadness  move. 


She  fled  to  him  and  w^ildly  clasped  his  feet 
W^hen  human  steps  were  heard  :  he  moved  nor  spoke, 
Nor  changed  his  hue,  nor  raised  his  looks  to  meet 
The  gaze  of  strangers.  —  Our  loud  entrance  woke 
The  echoes  of  the  hall,  which  circling  broke 
The  calm  of  its  recesses  :  like  a  tomb 
Its  sculptured  walls  vacantly  to  tlie  stroke 
Of  footfalls  answered,  and  the  twihght's  gloom 
Lay  like  a  charnel's  mist  within  the  radiant  dome. 


90 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


The  little  child  stood  up  when  we  came  nigh ; 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  seemed  very  pale  and  -wan, 
But  on  lier  forehead  and  within  her  eye 
Lay  beauty,  which  makes  hearts  that  feed  thereon 
Sick  with  excess  of  sweetness  ;  on  the  throne 
She  leaned.     The  king,  with  gathered  brow  and  lips 
"V^^reathed  by  long  scorn,  did  inly  sneer  and  frown 
With  hue  like  that  when  some  great  painter  dips 
His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse. 


She  stood  beside  him  like  a  rainbow  braided 
Within  some  storm,  ^vhen  scarce  its  shadows  vast 
From  the  blue  paths  of  the  swift  sun  have  faded. 
A  sweet  and  solemn  smile,  like  Cythna's,  cast 
One  moment's  light,  which  made  my  heart  beat  fast 
O'er  that  child's  parted  lips  —  a  gleam  of  bliss, 
A  shade  of  vanished  days  —  as  the  tears  past 
Which  wrapped  it,  even  as  with  a  father's  kiss 
I  pressed  those  softest  eyes  in  tremblinar  tenderness. 


The  sceptred  wretch  then  from  that  solitude 
I  drew,  and  of  his  change  compassionate. 
With  vs'ords  of  sadness  soothed  his  rugged  mood. 
But  he,  while  pride  and  fear  held  deep  debate, 
W^ith  sullen  guile  of  ill-dissembled  hate 
Glared  on  me  as  a  toothless  snake  might  glare  : 
Pity,  not  scorn,  1  felt,  though  desolate 
The  desolater  now,  and  unavv^are 
The  curses  which  he  mocked  had  caught  him  by  the  hair. 


1  led  him  forth  from  that  which  now  might  seem 
A  gorgeous  grave  :  through  portals  sculptured  deep 
With  imagery  beautiful  as  dream 
We  went,  and  left  the  shades  which  tend  on  sleep 
Over  its  unregarded  gold  to  keep 
Their  silent  watch. —  The  child  trod  faintingly, 
And,  as  she  went,  the  tears  which  she  did  weep 
Glanced  in  the  starlight ;  wildered  seemed  she. 
And  when  I  spake,  for  sobs  she  could  not  answer  me. 


At  last  the  tyrant  cried,  "  She  hungers,  slave  ! 
Stab  her,  or  give  her  bread  !"  —  It  was  a  tone 
Such  as  sick  fancies  in  a  new^-made  grave 
Might  hear.     I  trembled,  for  the  truth  was  known  ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


91 


He  with  this  child  had  thus  been  left  alone. 
And  neither  had  gone  forth  for  food  ;  but  he 
In  mingled  pride  and  awe  cowered  near  his  throne, 
And  she,  a  nursling  of  captivity. 
Knew  naught  beyond  those  walls,  nor  what  such  change  might  he. 


And  he  was  troubled  at  a  charm  withdrawn 
Thus  suddenly ;  that  sceptres  ruled  no  more  — 
That  even  from  gold  the  dreadful  strength  was  gone 
Which  once  made  all  things  subject  to  its  power  : 
Such  wonder  seized  him,  as  if  hour  by  hour 
The  past  had  come  again  ;  and  the  swift  fall 
Of  one  so  great  and  terrible  of  yore 
To  desolateness,  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Like  wonder  stirred,  who  saw  such  awful  change  befall. 


A  mighty  crowd,  such  as  the  wide  land  pours 
Once  in  a  thousand  years,  noAV  gathered  I'ound 
The  fallen  tyrant ;  like  the  rush  of  showers 
Of  hail  in  spring,  pattering  along  the  ground, 
Their  many  footsteps  fell,  else  came  no  sound 
From  the  wide  multitude  :  that  lonely  man 
Then  knew  the  burden  of  his  change,  and  found. 
Concealing  in  the  dust  his  visage  wan, 
Elefuge  from  the  keen  looks  which  through  his  bosom  ran. 


And  he  was  faint  withal.     I  sate  beside  him 
Upon  the  earth,  and  took  that  child  so  fair 
From  his  weak  arms,  that  ill  might  none  betide  him 
Or  her  ;  when  food  was  brought  to  them,  her  share 
To  his  averted  lips  the  child  did  bear ; 
But  when  she  saw  he  had  enough,  she  ate 
And  wept  the  while  ;  the  lonely  man's  despair 
Hunger  then  overcame,  and  of  his  state 
Forgetful,  on  the  dust  as  in  a  trance  he  sate. 


Slowly  the  silence  of  the  multitudes 
Past,  as  when  far  is  heard  in  some  lone  dell 
The  gathering  of  a  wind  among  the  woods  — 
"And  he  is  fallen  !"  they  cry  :  '"  he  who  did  dwell 
Like  famine  or  the  plague,  or  aught  more  fell, 
Among  our  homes,  is  fallen  !  the  murderer 
Who  slaked  his  thirsting  soul  as  from  a  well 
Of  blood  and  tears  with  ruin  !    He  is  here  ! 
Sunk  in  a  gulf  of  scorn  from  which  none  may  him  rear  !' 


93  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Then  was  heard  —  "  He  who  judged  let  hhn  be  brought 
To  judgement !    Blood  for  blood  cries  from  the  soil 
On  which  his  crimes  have  deep  pollution  wrought ! 
Shall  Othman  only  unavenged  despoil  ? 
Shall  they,  w^ho  by  the  stress  of  grinding  toil 
Wrest  from  the  unwilling  earth  his  luxuries, 
Perish  for  crime,  while  his  foul  blood  may  boil, 
Or  creep  within  his  veins  at  will  ?  —  Arise  ! 
And  to  high  justice  make  her  chosen  sacrifice  !" 


'•  What  do  ye  seek  ?  w^hat  fear  ye  ?"  then  I  cried, 
Suddenly  starting  forth,  "  that  ye  should  shed 
The  blood  of  Othman  ?  —  if  your  hearts  are  tried 
In  the  true  love  of  freedom,  cease  to  dread 
This  one  poor  lonely  man :  beneath  heaven  shed 
In  purest  light  above  us  all,  through  earth. 
Maternal  earth,  who  doth  her  sweet  smiles  spread 
For  all,  let  him  go  free  —  until  the  worth 
Of  human  nature  w^in  from  these  a  second  birth. 


"  What  call  ye  justice  1    Is  there  one  who  ne'er 
In  secret  thought  has  wished  another's  ill  ?  — 
Are  ye  all  pure  ?    Let  those  stand  forth  w^ho  hear, 
And  tremble  not.     Shall  they  insult  and  kill. 
If  such  they  be  ?  their  mild  eyes  can  they  fill 
With  the  false  anger  of  the  hypocrite  ? 
Alas  !  such  w^ere  not  pure  :  the  chastened  will 
Of  virtue  sees  that  justice  is  the  light 
Of  love,  and  not  revenge,  aud  terror,  and  despite." 


The  murmur  of  the  people,  slowly  dying, 
Paused  as  I  spake  ;  then  those  who  near  me  were, 
Cast  gentle  looks  whei-e  the  lone  man  was  lying 
Shrouding  his  head,  w^hich  now  that  infant  fair 
Clasped  on  her  lap  in  silence  ;  through  the  air 
Sobs  were  then  heard,  and  many  kissed  my  feet 
In  pity's  madness,  and,  to  the  despair 
Of  him  whom  late  they  cursed,  a  solace  sweet 
His  very  victims  brought  —  soft  looks  and  speeches  meet. 


Then  to  a  home,  for  his  repose  assigned, 
Accompanied  by  the  still  throng  he  went 
In  silence,  where,  to  soothe  his  rankling  mind, 
Some  likeness  of  his  ancient  state  was  lent ; 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  93 

And,  if  his  heart  could  have  been  innocent 
As  those  ■who  pardoned  him,  he  might  have  ended 
His  days  in  peace  ;  but  his  straight  lips  were  bent. 
Men  said,  into  a  smile  which  guile  portended, 
A  sight  with  which  that  child  like  hope  with  fear  was  blended. 


'Twas  midnight  now,  the  eve  of  that  great  day, 
"Whereon  the  many  nations  at  whose  call 
The  chains  of  earth  like  mist  melted  away, 
Decreed  to  hold  a  sacred  festival, 
A  rite  to  attest  the  equality  of  all 
Who  live.     So  to  their  homes,  to  dream  or  wake, 
All  went.     The  sleepless  silence  did  recall 
Laone  to  my  thoughts,  with  hopes  that  make 
The  flood  recede  from  which  their  thirst  they  seek  to  slake. 

XXXVIII. 

The  dawn  flowed  forth,  and  from  its  purple  fountains 
1  drank  those  hopes  which  make  the  spirit  quail, 
As  to  the  plain  between  the  misty  mountains 
And  the  great  city,  w^ith  a  countenance  pale 
I  went :  it  was  a  sight  which  might  avail 
To  make  men  weep  exulting  tears,  for  whom 
Now  first  from  human  pow^er  the  reverend  veil 
Was  torn,  to  see  earth  from  her  general  womb 
Pour  forth  her  swarming  sons  to  a  fraternal  doom : 


To  see,  far  glancing  in  the  misty  morning, 
The  signs  of  that  innumerable  host. 
To  hear  one  sound  of  many  made,  the  warning 
Of  earth  to  heaven  from  its  free  children  tost. 
While  the  eternal  hills,  and  the  sea  lost 
In  wavering  light,  and,  starring  the  blue  sky 
The  city's  myriad  spires  of  gold,  almost 
With  human  joy  made  mute  society 
Its  witnesses  with  men  who  must  hereafter  be  : 


To  see,  like  some  vast  island  from  the  ocean. 
The  altar  of  the  federation  rear 
Its  pile  i'  the  midst ;  a  work,  which  the  devotion 
Of  millions  in  one  night  created  there, 
Sudden,  as  when  the  moonrise  makes  appear 
Strange  clouds  in  the  east ;  a  marble  pyramid 
Distinct  with  steps  :  that  mighty  shape  did  wear 
The  light  of  genius  ;  its  still  shadow  hid 
Far  ships  :  to  know  its  height  the  morning  mists  forbid  f 


94  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM, 


To  hear  the  restless  multitudes  for  ever 
Around  the  base  of  that  great  altar  flow, 
As  on  some  mountain  islet  burst  and  shiver 
Atlantic  waves  ;  and  solemnly  and  slow^ 
As  the  wind  bore  that  tumult  to  and  fro, 
To  feel  the  dreamlike  music,  which  did  swim 
Like  beams  through  floating  clouds  on  waves  below, 
FaUing  in  pauses  from  that  altar  dim 
As  silver-sounding  tongues  breathed  an  aerial  hymn. 


To  hear,  to  see,  to  live,  was  on  that  morn 
Lethean  joy !  so  that  all  those  assembled 
Cast  off  their  memories  of  the  past  outworn  : 
Two  only  bosoms  v\^ith  their  o^vn  life  trembled. 
And  mine  was  one  —  and  we  had  both  dissembled  ; 
So  with  a  beating  heart  I  went,  and  one 
Who  having  much  covets  yet  more,  resembled  : 
A  lost  and  dear  possession,  which  not  won. 
He  walks  in  lonely  gloom  beneath  the  noonday  sun. 


To  the  great  pyramid  I  came  :  its  stair 
With  female  quires  was  thronged  :  the  loveliest 
Among  the  free,  grouped  with  its  sculptures  rare. 
As  I  approached,  the  morning's  golden  mist. 
Which  nowr  the  wonder-stricken  breezes  kist 
With  their  cold  lips,  fled,  and  the  summit  shone 
Like  Athos  seen  from  Samothracia.  drest 
In  earliest  light  by  vintagers  :  and  one 
Sate  there,  a  female  shape  upon  an  ivory  throne. 

XL  IV. 

A  form  most  like  the  imagined  habitant 
Of  silver  exhalations  sprung  from  dawn. 
By  winds  w^hich  feed  on  sunrise  woven,  to  enchant 
The  faiths  of  men  :  all  mortal  eyes  w^ere  drawn, 
As  famished  mariners  through  strange  seas  gone, 
Gaze  on  a  burning  watchtower,  by  the  light 
Of  those  divinest  lineaments  ;  alone 

With  thoughts  which  none  could  share,  from  that  fair  sight 
I  turned  in  sickness,  for  a  veil  shrouded  her  countenance  bright. 

XLV. 

And,  neither  did  I  hear  the  acclamations, 
W^hich  from  brief  silence  bursting,  filled  the  air 
With  her  strange  name  and  mine,  from  all  the  nations 
Which  we,  they  said,  in  strength  had  gathered  there 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  95 

From  the  sleep  of  bondage  ;  nor  the  vision  fair 
Of  that  bright  pageantry  beheld  —  but  blind 
And  silent,  as  a  breathing  corpse  did  fare, 
Leaning  upon  ray  friend,  till,  like  a  wind 
To  fevered  cheeks,  a  voice  flowed  o'er  my  troubled  mind. 


Like  music  of  some  minstrel  heavenly  gifted. 
To  one  whom  iiends  enthrall,  this  voice  to  me  : 
Scarce  did  I  wish  her  veil  to  be  uplifted, 
I  was  so  calm  and  joyous.  —  I  could  see 
The  platform  v^-here  we  stood,  the  statues  three 
Which  kept  their  marble  watch  on  that  high  shrine. 
The  multitudes,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea ; 
As  when  eclipse  hath  passed,  things  sudden  shine 
To  men's  astonished  eyes  most  clear  and  crystalline. 


At  first  Laone  spoke  most  tremulously  : 
But  soon  her  voice  that  calmness  which  it  shed 
Gathered,  and  —  "  Thou  art  whom  I  sought  to  see, 
And  thou  art  our  first  votary  here,"  she  said  : 
"  1  had  a  dear  friend  once,  but  he  is  dead  !  — 
And  of  all  those  on  the  wide  earth  who  breathe, 
Thou  dost  resemble  him  alone  —  I  spread 
This  veil  between  us  two,  that  thou  beneath 
Shouldst  image  one  who  may  have  been  long  lost  in  death. 


"  For  this  wilt  thou  not  henceforth  pardon  me  ? 
Yes,  but  those  joys  which  silence  well  requite 
Forbid  reply  :  why  men  have  chosen  me 
To  be  the  priestess  of  this  holiest  rite 
I  scarcely  know,  but  that  the  floods  of  light 
Which  flow  over  the  world,  have  borne  me  hither 
To  meet  thee,  long  most  dear  ;  and  now  unite 
Thine  hand  with  mine,  and  may  all  comfort  wither 
From  both  the  hearts  whose  pulse  in  joy  now  beats  together, 


"  If  our  own  will  as  others'  law  we  bind. 
If  the  foul  worship  trampled  here  we  fear  ; 
If  as  ourselves  we  cease  to  love  our  kind  !"  — 
She  paused,  and  pointed  upward  :  sculptured  there 
Three  shapes  around  her  ivory  throne  appear  ; 
One  was  a  giant,  like  a  child  asleep 
On  a  loose  rock,  whose  grasp  crushed,  as  it  were 
In  dream,  sceptres  and  crowns  ;  and  one  did  keep 
Its  watchful  eyes  in  doubt  whether  to  smile  or  weep  : 


96  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


A  woman  sitting  on  the  sculptured  disk 
Of  the  broad  earth,  and  feeding  from  one  breast 
A  human  babe  and  a  young  basilisk  ; 
Her  looks  were  sweet  as  heaven's  when  loveliest 
In  autumn  eves.  —  The  third  image  was  drest 
In  white  wings  swift  as  clouds  in  winter  skies. 
Beneath  his  feet,  'mong  ghastliest  forms,  represt 
Lay  Faith,  an  obscene  worm,  who  sought  to  rise, 
While  calmly  on  the  sun  he  turned  his  diamond  eyes. 


Beside  that  image  then  I  sate,  while  she 
Stood,  'mid  the  throngs  which  ever  ebbed  and  flowed 
Like  light  amid  the  shadows  of  the  sea 
Cast  from  one  cloudless  star,  and  on  the  crowd 
That  touch,  which  none  who  feels  forgets,  bestowed  ; 
And  while  the  sun  returned  the  steadfast  gaze 
Of  the  great  image,  as  o'er  heaven  it  glode, 
That  rite  had  place  ;  it  ceased  when  sunset's  blaze 
Burned  o'er  the  isles  ;  all  stood  in  joy  and  deep  amaze  ; 

When  in  the  silence  of  all  spirits  there 
Laone's  voice  was  felt,  and  through  the  air 
Her  thrilling  gestures  spoke,  most  eloquently  fair  : 


"  Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset !  swift  and  strong 
As  new-fledged  eagles,  beautiful  and  young. 
That  float  among  the  blinding  beams  of  morning ; 
And  underneath  thy  feet  writhe  Faith  and  Folly, 
Custom  and  Hell,  and  mortal  Melancholy  — 
Hark  !  the  Earth  starts  to  hear  the  mighty  warning 
Of  thy  voice  sublime  and  holy  ; 
Its  free  spirits  here  assembled, 
See  thee,  feel  thee,  know  thee  now : 
To  thy  voice  their  hearts  have  trembled, 
Like  ten  thousand  clouds  w^hich  flow 
With  one  w^ide  wind  as  it  flies  ! 
Wisdom  !  thy  irresistible  children  rise 
To  hail  thee,  and  the  elements  they  chain 
And  their  own  will  to  swell  the  glory  of  thy  train. 


"  O  Spirit  vast  and  deep  as  night  and  heaven ! 
Mother  and  soul  of  all  to  which  is  given 
The  light  of  life,  the  loveliness  of  being, 
Lo  !  thou  dost  reascend  the  human  heart, 
Thy  throne  of  power,  almighty  as  thou  wert. 
In  dreams  of  poets  old  grown  pale  by 
The  shade  of  thee :  now,  millions  start 


THE)    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  97 

To  feel  thy  lightnini^s  through  them  burning : 
Nature,  or  God,  or  Love,  or  Pleasure, 
Or  Sympathy,  the  sad  tears  turning 
To  mutual  smiles,  a  drainless  treasure, 
Descends  amid  us  ;  Scorn  and  Hate, 
Revenge  and  Selfishness,  are  desolate  — 
A  hundred  nations  swear  that  there  shall  be 
Pity  and  Peace  and  Love,  among  the  good  and  free  ! 


3, 

"  Eldest  of  things,  divine  Equality  ! 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  but  the  slaves  of  thee, 
The  angels  of  thy  sw^ay,  who  pour  around  thee 
Treasures  from  all  the  cells  of  human  thought, 
And  fi'om  the  stars,  and  from  the  ocean  brought. 
And  the  last  living  heart  vv^hose  beatings  bound  thee 
The  powerful  and  the  wise  had  sought 
Thy  coming  ;  thou  in  light  descending 
O'er  the  wide  land  which  is  thine  own, 
Like  the  spring  whose  breath  is  blending 
All  blasts  of  fragrance  into  one, 
Comest  upon  the  paths  of  men  !  — 
Earth  bares  her  general  bosom  to  thy  ken, 
And  all  her  children  here  in  glory  meet 
To  feed  upon  thy  smiles,  and  clasp  thy  sacred  feet. 


"  My  brethren,  we  are  free  !  the  plains  and  mountains, 
The  gi-ay  seashore,  the  forests  and  the  fountains, 
Are  haunts  of  happiest  dwellers ;  man  and  woman. 
Their  common  bondage  burst,  may  freely  borrow 
From  lawless  love  a  solace  for  their  sorrow  ! 
For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we  are  human. 
A  stormy  night's  serenest  morrow. 
Whose  showers  are  Pity's  gentle  tears. 
Whose  clouds  are  smiles  of  those  that  die 
Like  infants,  without  hopes  or  fears, 
And  whose  beams  are  joys  that  lie 
In  blended  hearts,  now  holds  dominion  : 
The  dawn  of  mind,  which,  upward  on  a  pinion 
Borne,  swift  as  sunrise,  far  illumines  space. 
And  clasps  this  barren  world  in  its  own  bright  embrace ! 


"  My  brethren,  we  are  free  !  the  fruits  are  glowing 
Beneath  the  stars,  and  the  night-winds  are  flowing 
O'er  the  ripe  corn  ;  the  birds  and  beasts  are  dreaming- 
Never  again  may  blood  of  bird  or  beast 

7 


98  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Stahi  with  its  venomous  Btreara  a  human  feast. 
To  the  pure  skies  in  accusation  steaming 
Avenging  poisons  shall  have  ceased 

To  feed  disease  and  fear  and  madness. 

The  dwellers  of  the  earth  and  air 

Shall  throng  around  our  steps  in  gladness, 

Seeking  their  food  or  refuge  there. 
Our  toil  from  thought  all  glorious  forms  shall  cull. 
To  make  this  earth,  our  home,  more  beautiful, 
And  Science  and  her  Sister  Poesy 
Shall  clothe  in  Ught  the  fields  and  cities  of  the  free  ! 


"  Victory,  victory  to  the  prostrate  nations  I 

Bear  witness  Night,  and  ye  mate  Constellations, 

Who  gaze  on  us  from  your  crystalline  cars  ! 

Thoughts  have  gone  forth  whose  powers  can  sleep  no  more  ! 

Victory !  victory  !    Earth's  remotest  shore, 

Regions  which  groan  beneath  the  antarctic  stars, 

The  green  lands  cradled  in  the  roar 

Of  western  waves,  and  wildernesses 

Peopled  and  vast,  which  skirt  the  oceans 

Where  Morning  dyes  her  golden  tresses, 

Shall  soon  partake  our  high  emotions  ; 
Kings  shall  turn  pale  !    Almighty  Fear, 
The  fiend-god,  w^hen  our  charmed  name  he  hear, 
Shall  fade  like  shadow  from  his  thousand  fanes, 
While  Truth  with  Joy  entlironed  o'er  his  lost  empire  reigns  !" 


Ere  she  had  ceased,  the  mists  of  night  entwining 
Their  dim  woof,  floated  o'er  the  infinite  throng  ; 
She,  like  a  spirit  through  the  darkness  shining, 
In  tones  w^hose  sweetness  silence  did  prolong, 
As  if  to  lingering  winds  they  did  belong, 
Poured  forth  her  inmost  soul :  a  passionate  speech 
With  wild  and  thrilling  pauses  woven  among, 
Which  whoso  heard,  was  mute,  for  it  could  teach 
To  rapture  like  her  own  all  listening  hearts  to  reach. 


Her  voice  was  as  a  mountain-stream  which  sweeps 
The  withered  leaves  of  autumn  to  the  lake, 
And  in  some  deep  and  narrow  bay  then  sleeps 
In  the  shadow  of  the  shores  ;  as  dead  leaves  wake 
Under  the  wave,  in  flowers  and  herbs  which  make 
Those  green  depths  beautiful  when  skies  are  blue, 
The  multitude  so  moveless  did  partake 
Such  living  change,  and  kindling  murmurs  flew 
As  o'er  that  speecliless  calm  delight  and  wonder  grew. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  99 


Over  the  plain  the  throngs  were  scattei-ed  then 
In  groups  around  the  fires,  which  from  the  sea 
Even  to  the  gorge  of  the  first  mountain  glen 
Blazed  wide  and  far  :  the  banquet  of  the  free 
Was  spread  beneath  many  a  dark  cypress-tree, 
Beneath  whose  spires,  which  swayed  in  the  red  light, 
Reclining  as  they  ate,  of  Liberty, 
And  Hope,  and  Justice,  and  Laone's  name. 
Earth's  children  did  a  woof  of  happy  converse  frame. 


Their  feast  was  such  as  Earth,  the  general  mother, 
Pours  from  her  fairest  bosom,  when  she  smiles 
In  the  embrace  of  Autumn  ;  to  each  other 
As  when  some  parent  fondly  reconciles 
Her  warring  children,  she  their  wrath  beguiles 
With  her  own  sustenance  ;  they  relenting  weep  : 
Such  was  this  festival,  which  from  their  isles, 
And  continents,  and  winds,  and  oceans  deep, 
All  shapes  might  throng  to  share,  that  fly,  or  walk,  or  creep. 


Might  share  in  peace  and  innocence,  for  gore 
Or  poison  none  this  festal  did  pollute. 
But  piled  on  high,  an  overflow^ing  store 
Of  pomegranates  and  citrons,  fairest  fruit, 
Melons  and  dates  and  figs  and  many  a  root 
Sweet  and  sustaining,  and  bright  grapes,  ere  yet 
Accursed  fire  their  mild  juice  could  transmute 
Into  a  mortal  bane,  and  brown  corn  set 
In  basketH  ;  with  pure  streams  their  thirsting  lips  they  wet. 


Laone  had  descended  from  the  shrine, 
And  every  deepest  look  and  holiest  mind 
Fed  on  her  form,  though  now  those  tones  divine 
Were  silent  as  she  passed  ;  she  did  unwind 
Her  veil,  as  with  the  crowds  of  her  own  kind 
She  mixed  ;  some  impulse  made  my  heart  refrain 
Erom  seeking  her  that  night,  so  I  reclined 
Amid  a  group,  where  on  the  utmost  plain 
A  festal  watch-fire  burned  beside  the  dusky  main. 


And  joyous  was  our  feast ;  pathetic  talk, 
And  wit,  and  harmony  of  choral  strains. 
While  far  Orion  o'er  the  waves  did  walk 
That  flow  among  the  isles,  held  us  in  chains 


100  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Of  sweet  captivity  which  none  disdains 
Who  feels :  but,  when  his  zone  grew  dim  in  mist 
Which  clothes  the  Ocean's  bosom,  o'er  the  plains 
The  multitudes  went  homeward,  to  their  rest, 
Which  that  delightful  day  with  its  own  shadow  blest. 


CANTO  VI. 


Beside  the  dimness  of  the  glimmering  sea, 
Weaving  swift  language  from  impassioned  themes, 
With  that  dear  friend  I  lingered,  who  to  me 
So  late  had  been  restored  beneath  the  gleams 
Of  the  silver  stars  ;  and  ever  in  soft  dreams 
Of  future  love  and  peace  sweet  converse  lapt 
Our  willing  fancies,  till  the  pallid  beams, 
Of  the  last  watch-fire  fell,  and  darkness  wrapt 
The  waves,  and  each  bright  chain  of  floating  fire  was  snapt. 


And  till  we  came  even  to  the  City's  wall 
And  the  great  gate,  then,  none  knevs^  whence  or  why, 
Disquiet  on  the  multitudes  did  fall : 
And  first,  one  pale  and  breathless  past  us  by, 
And  stared  and  spoke  not ;  then  with  piercing  cry 
A  troop  of  wild-eyed  women  by  the  shrieks 
Of  their  own  terror  driven,  tumultuously 
Hither  and  thither  hunying  with  pale  cheeks. 
Each  one  from  fear  unknown  a  sudden  refuge  seeks — 


Then,  rallying  cries  of  treason  and  of  danger 
Resounded  :  and  —  "  They  come  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  ! 
The  Tyrant  is  among  us,  and  the  stranger 
Comes  to  enslave  us  in  his  name  !  to  arms  !" 
In  vain  :  for  Panic,  the  pale  fiend  who  charms 
Strength  to  forswear  her  right,  those  millions  swept 
Like  waves  before  the  tempest  —  these  alarms 
Came  to  me,  as  to  know  their  cause  I  leapt 
On  the  gate's  turret,  and  in  rage  and  grief  and  scorn  I  wept ! 


For  to  the  North  I  saw  the  town  on  fire, 
And  its  red  light  made  morning  pallid  now. 
Which  burst  over  wide  Asia.     Louder,  higher 
The  yells  of  victory  and  the  screams  of  woe 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  101 

I  heard  approach,  and  saw  the  throng  below 
Stream  through  the  gates  like  foam-wrought  waterfalls 
Fed  from  a  thousand  storms  —  the  fearful  glow 
Of  bombs  flares  overhead  —  at  intervals 
The  red  artillery's  bolt  mangling  among  them  falls. 


And  now  the  horsemen  come  —  and  all  was  done 
Swifter  than  I  have  spoken  —  I  beheld 
Their  red  swords  flash  in  the  unrisen  sun. 
I  rushed  among  the  rout  to  have  repelled 
That  miserable  flight  —  one  moment  quelled 
By  voice,  and  looks,  and  eloquent  despair, 
As  if  reproach  from  their  own  hearts  withheld 
Their  steps,  they  stood  ;  but  soon  came  pouring  there 
New  multitudes,  and  did  those  rallied  bauds  o'erbear. 


I  strove,  as  drifted  on  some  cataract 
By  irresistible  streams,  some  wretch  might  strive 
"Who  hears  its  fatal  roar :  the  files  compact 
Whelmed  me,  and  from  the  gate  availed  to  drive 
With  quickening  impulse,  as  each  bolt  did  rive 
Their  ranks  with  bloodier  chasm  :  into  the  plain 
Disgorged  at  length  the  dead  and  the  alive, 
In  one  dread  mass  were  parted,  and  the  stain 
Of  blood  from  mortal  steel  fell  o'er  the  fields  like  rain. 


For  now  the  despot's  bloodhounds  with  their  prey, 
Unarmed  and  unaware,  were  gorging  deep 
Their  gluttony  of  death;  the  loose  array 
Of  horsemen  o'er  the  wide  fields  murdering  sweep, 
And  with  loud  laughter  for  their  tyrant  reap 
A  liarvest  sown  with  other  hopes  ;  the  w^hile, 
Far  overhead,  ships  from  Propontis  keep 
A  killing  rain  of  fire  :  when  the  waves  smile 
As  sudden  earthquakes  light  many  a  volcano  isle. 

VIII. 

Thus  sudden,  unexpected  feast  was  spread 
For  the  carrion  fowls  of  heaven.     I  saw  the  sight — 
I  moved  —  I  lived  —  as  o'er  the  heaps  of  dead, 
Whose  stony  eyes  glared  in  the  morning  light, 
I  trod ;  to  me  there  came  no  thought  of  flight, 
But  with  loud  cries  of  scorn  which  whoso  heard 
That  dreaded  death,  felt  in  his  veins  tlie  might 
Of  virtuous  shame  return,  the  crowd  I  stirred. 
And  desperation's  hope  in  many  hearts  nicuried. 


102  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


A  band  of  brothers  gathering  round  me,  made. 
Although  unarmed,  a  steadfast  front,  and  still 
Retreating,  with  stern  looks  beneath  the  shade 
Of  gathered  eyebrows,  did  the  victors  fill 
With  doubt  even  in  success;  deliberate  will 
Inspired  our  growing  troop  ;  not  overthrown 
It  gained  the  shelter  of  a  grassy  hill. 
And  ever  still  our  comrades  w^ere  hev/n  down, 
And  their  defenceless  limbs  beneath  our  footsteps  strown. 


Immovably  we  stood  —  in  joy  I  found, 
Beside  me  then,  firm  as  a  giant  pine 
Among  the  mountain  vapors  driven  around, 
The  old  man  whom  I  loved  —  his  eyes  divine 
With  a  mild  look  of  courage  answered  mine, 
And  my  young  friend  was  near,  and  ardently 
His  hand  grasped  mine  a  moment  —  now  the  line 
Of  war  extended,  to  our  rallying  cry, 
As  myriads  flocked  in  love  and  brotherhood  to  die. 


For  ever  while  the  sun  was  climbing  Heaven 
The  horsemen  hew^ed  our  unarmed  myriads  down 
Safely,  though  when  by  thirst  of  carnage  driven 
Too  near,  those  slaves  were  swiftly  overthrown 
By  hundreds  leaping  on  them  :  flesh  and  bone 
Soon  made  our  ghastly  ramparts  ;  then  the  shaft 
Of  the  artillery  from  tlie  sea  was  thrown 
More  fast  and  fiery,  and  the  conquerors  laughed 
In  pride  to  hear  the  wind  our  screams  of  torment  waft. 


For  on  one  side  alone  the  hill  gave  shelter, 
So  vast  that  phalanx  of  unconquered  men, 
And  there  the  living  in  their  blood  did  welter 
Of  the  dead  and  dying,  which,  in  that  green  glen, 
Like  stifled  torrents,  made  a  plashy  fen 
Under  the  feet  —  thus  was  the  butchery  waged 
While  the  sun  clomb  Heaven's  eastern  steep  —  but  when 
It  'gan  to  sink,  a  fiercer  combat  raged. 
For  in  more  doubtful  strife  the  armies  were  engaged. 


Within  a  cave  upon  the  hill  were  found 
A  bundle  of  rude  pikes,  the  instrument 
Of  those  who  war  but  on  their  native  ground 
For  natural  rights  :  a  shout  of  joyance  sent 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  103 

Even  from  our  hearts  the  wide  air  pierced  and  rent, 
As  those  few  arms  the  bravest  and  the  best 
Seized  ;  and  each  sixth,  thus  armed,  did  now  present 
A  line  which  covered  and  sustained  the  rest, 
A  confident  phalanx,  which  the  foes  on  every  side  invest. 


That  onset  turned  the  foes  to  flight  almost ; 
But  soon  they  saw  their  present  strength,  and  knew 
That  coming  night  would  to  our  resolute  host 
Bring  victoiy ;  so  dismounting  close  they  drew^ 
Their  glittering  files,  and  then  the  combat  grew 
Unequal  but  most  horrible  ;  and  ever 
Our  myriads,  whom  the  swift  bolt  overthrew, 
Or  the  red  sword,  failed  like  a  mountain  river 
Which  rushes  forth  in  foam  to  sink  in  sands  for  ever. 


XV. 

Sorrow  and  shame,  to  see  with  their  own  kind 
Our  human  brethren  mix.  like  beasts  of  blood 
To  mutual  ruin  armed  by  one  behind. 
Who  sits  and  scofts  !     That  friend  so  mild  and  good, 
Who  like  its  shadow^  near  my  youth  had  stood. 
Was  stabbed  !  my  old  preserver's  hoary  hair, 
With  the  flesh  clinging  to  its  roots,  was  strewed 
Under  my  feet !     I  lost  all  sense  or  care. 
And  like  tlie  rest  I  grew  desperate  and  unaware. 


XVI. 

The  battle  became  ghastlier  —  in  the  midst 
I  paused  and  saw  how  ugly  and  how  fell, 
O  Hate  !  thou  art,  even  when  thy  life  thou  shedd'st 
For  love.     The  gi-ound  in  many  a  little  dell 
Was  broken,  up  and  down  whose  steeps  befell 
Alternate  victory  and  defeat,  and  there 
The  combatants  with  rage  most  homble 
Strove,  and  their  eyes  started  with  cracking  stare, 
And  impotent  their  tongues  they  lolled  into  the  air. 


Flaccid  and  foamy,  like  a  mad  dog's  hanging  ; 
Want,  and  Moon-madness,  and  the  Pest's  swifl;  bane 
When  its  shafts  smite  —  while  yet  its  bow  is  twanging - 
Have  each  their  mark  and  sign  —  some  ghastly  stain  ; 
And  this  w^as  thine,  O  W^ar  !  of  hate  and  pain 
Thou  loathed  slave.     I  saw  all  shapes  of  death, 
And  ministered  to  many,  o'er  the  plain. 
W^hile  carnage  in  the  sun-beam's  warmth  did  seethe, 
Till  twilight  o'er  the  East  wove  her  serenest  wreath. 


104  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


The  few  who  yet  survived,  resolute  and  firm, 
Around  me  fought.     At  the  decline  of  day, 
"Winding  above  the  mountain's  snowy  term, 
New^  banners  shone  :  they  quivered  in  the  ray 
Of  the  sun's  unseen  orb  —  ere  night  the  array 
Of  fresh  troops  hemmed  us  in  —  of  those  brave  bands 
I  soon  survived  alone  —  and  novs^  I  lay 
Vanquished  and  faint,  the  grasp  of  bloody  hands 
I  felt,  and  saw  on  high  the  glare  of  falling  brands  : 


When  on  my  foes  a  sudden  terror  came. 
And  they  fled,  scattering.     Lo  !  with  reinless  speed 
A  black  Tartarian  horse  of  giant  frame 
Comes  trampling  o'er  the  dead  ;  the  living  bleed 
Beneath  the  hoofs  of  that  tremendous  steed, 
On  which,  like  to  an  Angel,  robed  in  white, 
Sate  one  waving  a  sw^ord ;  the  hosts  recede 
And  fly,  as  through  their  ranks,  with  awful  might. 
Sweeps  in  the  shadow  of  eve  that  Phantom  swift  and  bright ; 


And  its  path  made  a  solitude.     I  rose 
And  marked  its  coming  ;  it  relaxed  its  course 
As  it  approached  me,  and  the  wind  that  flows 
Through  night,  bore  accents  lo  mine  ear  whose  force 
Might  create  smiles  in  death.     The  Tartar  horse 
Paused,  and  I  saw  the  shape  its  might  which  swayed, 
And  heard  her  musical  pants,  like  the  sweet  source 
Of  waters  in  the  desert,  as  she  said. 
Mount  with  me,  Laon,  now"  —  I  rapidly  obeyed. 


Then  "  Away  !  away  !"  she  cried,  and  stretched  her  sword 
As  'twere  a  scourge  over  the  courser's  head. 
And  lightly  shook  the  reins.     We  spake  no  word. 
But  like  the  vapor  of  the  tempest  fled 
Over  the  plain  ;  her  dark  hair  was  dispread. 
Like  the  pine's  locks  upon  the  lingering  blast ; 
Over  mine  eyes  its  shadowy  strings  it  spread 
Fitfully,  and  the  hills  and  streams  fled  fast, 
As  o'er  their  glimmering  forms  the  steed's  broad  shadow  past : 


And  his  hoofs  ground  the  rocks  to  fii'e  and  dust. 
His  strong  sides  made  the  torrents  rise  in  spray, 
And  turbulence,  as  if  a  w^hirlwind's  gust 
Surrounded  us  ;  and  still  away  !  away  ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  105 

Through  the  desert  night  we  sped,  while  she  alway 
Gazed  on  a  mountain  w^hich  w^e  neared,  whose  crest 
Crowned  with  a  marble  ruin,  in  the  ray 
Of  the  obscure  stars  gleamed  ;  its  rugged  breast 
The  steed  strained  up,  and  then  his  impulse  did  arrest. 


A  rocky  hill  which  overhung  the  Ocean  : 
From  that  lone  ruin,  when  the  steed  that  panted 
Paused,  might  be  heard  the  murmur  of  the  motion 
Of  w^aters,  as  in  spots  for  ever  haunted 
By  the  choicest  winds  of  Heaven,  which  are  enchanted 
To  music,  by  the  wand  of  Solitude, 
That  wizard  w^ild,  and  the  far  tents  implanted 
Upon  the  plain,  be  seen  by  those  who  stood 
Thence  marking  the  dark  shore  of  Ocean's  curved  flood. 


One  moment  these  were  heard  and  seen  —  another 
Past ;  and  the  two  who  stood  beneath  that  night, 
Each  only  heard,  or  saw,  or  felt  the  other; 
As  from  the  lofty  steed  she  did  alight, 
Cythna  (for,  from  the  eyes  w^hose  deepest  light 
Of  love  and  sadness  made  my  lips  feel  pale 
With  influence  strange  of  mournfuUest  delight. 
My  own  sweet  Cythna  looked,)  with  joy  did  quail, 
And  felt  her  strength  in  tears  of  human  weakness  fail. 


And  for  a  space  in  my  embrace  she  rested, 
Her  head  on  my  unquiet  heart  reposing. 
While  my  faint  arms  her  languid  franie  invested : 
At  length  she  looked  on  me,  and  half  unclosing 
Her  tremulous  lips,  said  :  "  Friend,  thy  bands  were  losing 
The  battle,  as  I  stood  before  the  King 
In  bonds.     I  burst  them  then,  and  swiftly  choosing 
The  time,  did  seize  a  Tartar's  sword,  and  spring 
Upon  his  horse,  and  swift  as  on  the  whirlwind's  wing,   ^ 


'•  Have  thou  and  I  been  borne  beyond  pursuer, 
And  we  are  here."     Then,  turning  to  the  steed, 
She  pressed  the  white  moon  on  his  front  with  pure 
And  rose-like  lip.^,  and  many  a  fragrant  weed 
From  the  green  ruin  plucked  that  he  might  feed ; 
But  I  to  a  stone  seat  that  Maiden  led. 
And  kissing  her  fair  eyes,  said,  '•  Thou  hast  need 
Of  rest,"  and  I  heaped  up  the  courser's  bed 
In  a  green  mossy  nook,  with  mountain  flowers  dispread. 


106  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Within  that  ruin,  where  a  shattered  portal 
Looks  to  the  eastern  stars,  abandoned  now 
By  man,  to  be  the  home  of  things  immortal, 
Memories,  like  awful  ghosts  which  come  and  go, 
And  must  inherit  all  he  builds  below^. 
When  he  is  gone,  a  hall  stood  —  o'er  -whose  roof 
Fair  clinging  weeds  with  ivy  pale  did  grow. 
Clasping  its  gi-ay  rents  with  a  verdurous  woof, 
A  hanging  dome  of  leaves,  a  canopy  moon-proof. 


The  autumnal  winds,  as  if  spell-bound,  had  made 
A  natural  couch  of  leaves  in  that  recess, 
Which  seasons  none  disturbed,  but  in  the  shade 
Of  flowering  parasites  did  Spring  love  to  dress 
With  their  sweet  blooms  the  wintry  loneliness 
Of  those  dead  leaves,  shedding  their  stars,  whene'er 
The  wandering  wind  her  nurslings  might  caress ; 
W"hose  intertwining  fingers  ever  there 
Made  music  wild  and  soft  that  filled  the  listening  air. 


We  know  not  where  we  go,  or  what  sweet  dream 
May  pilot  us  through  caverns  strange  and  fair 
Of  far  and  pathless  passion,  while  the  stream 
Of  life  our  bark  doth  on  its  whirlpools  bear. 
Spreading  swift  wings  as  sails  to  the  dim  air ; 
Nor  should  we  seek  to  know,  so  the  devotion 
Of  love  and  gentle  thoughts  be  heard  still  there 
Louder  and  louder  from  the  utmost  ocean 
Of  universal  life,  attuning  its  commotion. 


To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure  !    Oblivion  wrapt 
Our  spirits,  and  the  fearful  overthrow 
Of  public  hope  was  from  our  being  snapt. 
Though  linked  years  had  bound  it  there  ;  for  now 
A  power,  a  thirst,  a  knowledge,  which  below 
All  thoughts,  like  light  beyond  the  atmosphere, 
Clothing  its  clouds  with  grace,  doth  ever  flow. 
Came  on  us,  as  we  sate  in  silence  there, 
Beneath  the  golden  stars  of  the  clear  azure  au\ 


In  silence  which  doth  follow  talk  that  causes 
The  bafiled  heart  to  speak  with  sighs  and  tears. 
When  w^ildering  passion  swallo-weth  up  the  pauses 
Of  inexpressive  speech  :  the  youthful  years 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  107 

Which  we  together  past,  their  hopes  and  fears, 
The  blood  itself  which  ran  within  our  frames, 
That  likeness  of  the  features  which  endears 
The  thoughts  expressed  by  them,  our  very  names. 
And  all  the  winged  hours  which  speechless  memory  elai^is, 


Had  found  a  voice  :  and  ere  that  voice  did  pass, 
The  night  grew  damp  and  dim,  and  through  a  rent 
Of  the  ruin  where  we  sate,  from  the  morass, 
A  w^andering  meteor  by  some  wild  wind  sent, 
Hung  high  in  the  green  dome,  to  which  it  lent 
A  faint  and  pallid  lustre  ;'  while  the  song 
Of  blasts,  in  which  its  blue  hair  quivering  bent. 
Strewed  strangest  sounds  the  moving  leaves  among : 
A  wondrous  light,  the  sound  as  of  a  spirit's  tongue. 


The  meteor  showed  the  leaves  on  which  we  sate, 
And  Cythna's  glowing  arms,  and  the  thick  ties 
Of  her  soft  hair,  which  bent  with  gathered  weight 
My  neck  near  hers,  her  dark  and  deepening  eyes, 
Which,  as  twin  phantoms  of  one  star  that  lies 
O'er  a  dim  well,  move,  though  the  star  reposes, 
Swam  in  our  mute  and  liquid  ecstasies, 
Her  marble  brow,  and  eager  lips,  like  roses, 
With  their  own  fragrance  pale,  which  spring  but  half  uncloses. 


The  meteor  to  its  far  morass  returned  : 
The  beating  of  our  veins  one  interval 
Made  still ;  and  then  I  felt  the  blood  that  burned 
Within  her  frame,  mingle  with  mine,  and  fall 
Around  my  heart  like  fire  ;  and  over  all 
A  mist  was  spread,  the  sickness  of  a  deep 
And  speechless  swoon  of  joy,  as  might  befall 
Two  disunited  spirits  when  they  leap 
In  union  from  this  earth's  obscure  and  fading  sleep. 


Was  it  one  moment  that  confounded  thus 
All  thought,  all  sense,  all  feeling,  into  one 
Unutterable  power,  which  shielded  us 
Even  from  our  own  cold  looks,  when  we  had  gone 
Into  a  wide  and  wild  oblivion 
Of  tumult  and  of  tenderness  ?  or  now 
Had  ages,  such  as  make  the  moon  and  sun, 
The  seasons  and  mankind,  their  changes  know, 
Left  fear  and  time  unfelt  by  us  alone  belov/  ? 


108  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


I  know  not.     What  are  kisses  w^hose  fire  clasps 
The  failing  heart  in  languishment,  or  limb 
Twined  within  limb  ?  or  the  quick  dying  gasps 
Of  the  life  meeting,  when  the  faint  ej'cs  swim 
Through  tears  of  a  wide  mist,  boundless  and  dim, 
In  one  caress  ?     What  is  the  strong  control 
Which  leads  the  heart  that  dizzy  steep  to  climb, 
Where  far  over  the  world  those  vapors  roll. 
Which  blend  two  restless  frames  in  one  reposing  soul ! 


It  is  the  shadow  which  doth  float  unseen. 
But  not  unfelt,  o'er  blind  mortality, 
Whose  divine  darkness  fled  not  from  that  green 
And  lone  recess,  where  lapt  in  peace  did  lie 
Our  linked  frames,  till,  from  the  changing  sky 
That  night  and  still  another  day  had  fled  ; 
And  then  I  saw  and  felt.     The  moon  was  high, 
And  clouds,  as  of  a  coming  storm,  -were  spread 
Under  its  orb  —  loud  winds  were  gathering  overhead. 

X  X  X  V  1  I  I . 

Cythna's  sweet  lips  seemed  lurid  in  the  moon, 
Her  fairest  limbs  with  the  night  wind  were  chill. 
And  her  dark  tresses  were  all  loosely  strewn 
O'er  her  pale  bosom  :  all  w^ithin  was  still, 
And  the  sweet  peace  of  joy  did  almost  fill 
The  depth  of  her  unfathomable  look ; 
And  we  sate  calmly,  though  that  rocky  hill, 
The  waves  contending  in  its  caverns  strook. 
For  they  foreknew  the  storm,  and  the  gray  ruin  shook. 


There  we  unheeding  sate,  in  the  communion 
Of  interchanged  vows,  w^hich,  with  a  rite 
Of  faith  most  sw^eet  and  sacred,  stamped  our  union. — 
Few  were  the  living  hearts  which  could  unite 
Like  ours,  or  celebrate  a  bridal  night 
With  such  close  sympathies,  for  they  had  sprung 
From  linked  youth,  and  from  the  gentle  might 
Of  earliest  love,  delayed  and  cherished  long, 
Which  common  hopes  and  fears  made  like  a  tempest  strong. 


And  such  is  Nature's  law  divine,  that  those 
Who  grow  together  can  not  choose  but  love, 
If  faith  or  custom  do  not  interpose, 
Or  common  slavery  mar  what  else  might  move 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  109 

All  gentlest  thoughts  ;  as  in  the  sacred  grove 
Which  shades  the  springs  of  Ethiopian  Nile, 
That  living  tree,  w^hich,  if  the  arrowy  dove 
Strike  with  her  shadow,  shrinks  in  fear  awhile, 
But  its  own  kindred  leaves  clasps  while  the  sunbeams  smile ; 


And  clings  to  them,  w^hen  darkness  may  dissever 
The  close  caresses  of  all  duller  plants 
Which  bloom  on  the  wide  earth  —  thus  we  for  ever 
Were  linked,  for  love  had  nursed  us  in  the  haunts 
Where  knowledge  from  its  secret  source  enchants 
Young  hearts  with  the  fi'esh  music  of  its  springing. 
Ere  yet  its  gathered  flood  feeds  human  wants. 
As  the  gi-eat  Nile  feeds  Egypt ;  ever  flinging 
Light  on  the  woven  boughs  which  o'er  its  waves  are  swinging. 


The  tones  of  Cythna's  voice  like  echoes  were 
Of  those  far-murmuring  streams  ;  they  rose  and  fell, 
Mixed  with  mine  own  in  the  tempestuous  air — 
And  so  we  sate,  until  our  talk  befell 
Of  the  late  ruin,  swift  and  horrible, 
And  how  those  seeds  of  hope  might  yet  be  sown, 
Whose  fruit  is  evil's  mortal  poison  :  well 
For  us,  this  ruin  made  a  -watchtower  lone, 
But  Cythna's  eyes  looked  faint,  and  now  two  days  were  gone 


Since  she  had  food  :  therefore  I  did  awaken 
The  Tartar  steed,  who,  from  his  ebon  mane. 
Soon  as  the  clinging  slumbers  he  had  shaken, 
Bent  his  thin  head  to  seek  the  brazen  rein, 
Following  me  obediently  ;  with  pain 
Of  heart,  so  deep  and  dread,  that  one  caress. 
When  lips  and  heart  refuse  to  part  again. 
Till  they  have  told  their  fill,  could  scarce  express 
The  anguish  of  her  mute  and  fearful  tenderness, 


Cythna  beheld  me  part,  as  I  bestrode 
That  willing  steed  —  the  tempest  and  the  night, 
Which  gave  my  path  its  safety  as  I  rode 
Down  the  ravine  of  rocks,  did'  soon  unite 
The  darkness  and  the  tumult  of  their  might 
Borne  on  all  winds.  —  Far  through  the  streaming  rain 
Floating  at  intervals  the  garments  white 
Of  Cythna  gleamed,  and  her  voice  once  again 
Came  to  me  on  tlie  gust,  and  so(ni  I  readied  tlie  jilain. 


110  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


I  dreaded  not  the  tempest,  nor  did  he 
Who  bore  me,  but  his  eyeballs  wide  and  red 
Turned  on  the  lightning's  cleft  exultingly; 
And  when  the  earth  beneath  his  tameless  tread 
Shook  with  the  sullen  thunder,  he  would  spread 
His  nostrils  to  the  blast,  and  joyously 
Mock  the  fierce  peal  with  neighings  :  thus  we  sped 
O'er  the  lit  plain,  and  soon  I  could  descry 
Where  Death  and  Fire  had  gorged  the  spoil  of  victory. 


There  was  a  desolate  village  in  a  wood. 
Whose  bloom-inwoven  leaves  now  scattering  fed 
The  hungry  storm  ;  it  was  a  place  of  blood, 
A  heap  of  hearthless  walls  ;  the  flames  were  dead 
W^ithin  those  dwellings  now  —  the  life  had  fled 
From  all  those  corpses  now  —  but  the  wide  sky 
Flooded  with  lightning  was  ribbed  overhead 
By  the  black  rafters,  and  around  did  lie 
Women,  and  babes,  and  men,  slaughtered  confusedly. 


Beside  the  fountain  in  the  market-place 
Dismounting,  I  beheld  those  corpses  stare 
With  homy  eyes  upon  each  other's  face, 
And  on  the  earth  and  on  the  vacant  air. 
And  upon  me,  close  to  the  waters  where 
I  stooped  to  slake  my  thirst ;  I  shrank  to  taste, 
For  the  salt  bitterness  of  blood  was  there  ; 
But  tied  the  steed  beside,  and  sought  in  haste 
K  any  yet  survived  amid  that  ghastly  waste. 

XLVIII. 

No  living  thing  was  there  beside  one  woman, 
Whom  I  found  wandering  in  the  streets,  and  she 
Was  withered  from  a  likeness  of  aught  human 
Into  a  fiend,  by  some  strange  misery  : 
Soon  as  she  heard  my  steps  she  leaped  on  me, 
And  glued  her  burning  lips  to  mine,  and  laughed 
With  a  loud,  long,  and  frantic  laugh  of  glee. 
And  cried,  "  Now.  mortal,  thou  hast  deeply  quaffed 
The  Plague's  blue  kisses — soon  millions  shall  pledge  the  draught ! 

XLIX. 

"  My  name  is  Pestilence  :  this  bosom  dry 

Once  fed  two  babes  —  a  sister  and  a  brother  — 

When  I  came  home,  one  in  the  blood  did  lie 

Of  three  death-wounds  —  the  flames  had  ate  the  other  ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  Ill 

Since  then  I  have  no  longer  been  a  mother, 
But  I  am  Pestilence  :  hither  and  thither 
I  flit  about,  that  I  may  slay  and  smother ; 
All  lips  which  I  have  kissed  must  surely  v^^ither, 
But  Death's  —  if  thou  art  he,  we'll  go  to  work  together ! 


"  What  seekest  thou  here  ?  the  moonlight  comes  in  flashes  — 
The  dew  is  rising  dankly  from  the  dell  — 
'Twill  moisten  her  !  and  thou  shalt  see  the  gashes 
In  my  sweet  boy  —  now  full  of  worms  —  but  tell 
First  what  thou  seek'st."  —  "I  seek  for  food."  —  "  'Tis  well, 
Thou  shalt  have  food  :  Famine,  my  paramour, 
"Waits  for  us  at  the  feast  —  cruel  and  fell 
Is  Famine,  but  he  drives  not  from  his  door 
Those  whom  these  lips  have  kissed,  alone.     No  more,  no  more  !' 


As  thus  she  spake,  she  grasped  me  with  the  strength 
Of  madness,  and  by  many  a  ruined  hearth 
She  led,  and  over  many  a  corpse :  at  length 
We  came  to  a  lone  hut,  where  on  the  earth 
Which  made  its  floor,  she  in  her  ghastly  mirth 
Gathering  from  all  those  homes  now  desolate, 
Had  piled  three  heaps  of  loaves,  making  a  dearth 
Among  the  dead  —  round  w^hich  she  set  in  state 
A  ring  of  cold,  stiff  babes  :  silent  and  stark  they  sate. 


She  leaped  upon  a  pile,  and  lifted  high 
Her  mad  looks  to  the  lightning,  and  cried,  "  Eat ! 
Share  the  gi-eat  feast  —  to-morrow  we  must  die  !" 
And  then  she  spurned  the  loaves  with  her  pale  feet 
Toward  her  bloodless  guests  :  that  sight  to  meet, 
Mine  eyes  and  my  heart  ached,  and  but  that  she 
Who  loved  me.  did  with  absent  looks  defeat 
Despair,  I  might  have  raved  in  sympathy  ; 
But  now  I  took  the  food  that  woman  offered  me  — 


And  vainly  having  with  her  madness  striven 
If  I  might  win  her  to  return  w^ith  me. 
Departed.     In  the  eastern  beams  of  heaven 
The  lightning  now  grew  pallid  —  rapidly, 
As  by  the  shore  of  the  tempestuous  sea 
The  dark  steed  bore  me,  and  the  mountain  gray 
Soon  echoed  to  his  hoofs,  and  I  could  see 
Cythna  among  the  rocks,  where  she  alway 
Had  sate,  with  anxious  eyes  fixed  on  the  lingering  day. 


112  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


And  joy  was  ours  to  meet :  she  was  most  pale, 
Famished,  and  wet  and  weary,  so  I  cast 
My  arms  around  her,  lest  her  steps  should  fail 
As  to  our  home  we  -went,  and  thus  embraced, 
Her  full  heart  seemed  a  deeper  joy  to  taste 
Than  e'er  the  prosperous  knew  ;  the  steed  behind 
Trod  peacefully  along  the  mountain  waste  ; 
We  reached  our  home  ere  morning  could  unbind 
Night's  latest  veil,  and  on  our  bridal  couch  x'eclined. 


Her  chilled  heart  having  cherished  in  my  bosom, 
And  sweetest  kisses  past,  we  two  did  share 
Our  peaceful  meal :  as  an  autumnal  blossom 
Which  spreads  its  shrunk  leaves  in  the  sunny  air, 
After  cold  showers,  like  rainbows  woven  there, 
Thus  in  her  lips  and  cheeks  the  vital  spirit 
Mantled,  and  in  her  eyes  an  atmosphere 
Of  health  and  hope  ;  and  sorrow  languished  near  it, 
And  fear,  and  all  that  dark  despondence  doth  inherit. 


CANTO  VII. 


So  we  sate  joyous  as  the  morning  ray 
Which  fed  upon  the  wrecks  of  night  and  storm 
Now  lingering  on  the  winds  ;  light  airs  did  play 
Among  the  dewy  weeds,  the  sun  was  warm. 
And  we  sate  linked  in  the  inwoven  charm 
Of  converse  and  caresses  sweet  and  deep. 
Speechless  caresses,  talk  that  might  disarm 
Time,  though  he  wield  the  darts  of  death  and  sleep. 
And  those  thrice  mortal  barbs  in  his  own  poison  steep. 


I  told  her  of  my  sufferings  and  my  madness, 
And  hovs^,  awakened  from  that  dreamy  mood 
By  Liberty's  uprise,  the  strength  of  gladness 
Came  to  my  spirit  in  my  solitude  ; 
And  all  that  now  1  was,  while  tears  pursued 
Each  other  down  her  fair  and  listening  cheek 
Fast  as  the  thoughts  which  fed  them,  like  a  flood 
From  sunbright  dales ;  and  when  I  ceased  to  speak, 
Her  accents  soft  and  sweet  the  pausing  air  did  wake. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  113 


She  told  me  a  strange  tale  of  strange  endurance, 
Like  broken  memories  of  many  a  heart 
Woven  into  one  ;  to  which  no  firm  assurance, 
So  wild  were  they,  could  her  own  faith  impart. 
She  said  that  not  a  tear  did  dare  to  start 
From  the  swol'n  brain,  and  that  her  thoughts  were  firm 
When  from  all  mortal  hope  .she  did  depart, 
Borne  by  those  slaves  across  the  ocean's  term, 
And  that  she  reached  the  port  without  one  fear  infirm. 


One  was  she  among  many  there,  the  thralls 
Of  the  cold  tyrant's  cruel  lu.st :  and  they 
Laughed  mournfully  in  tho.se  polluted  halls ; 
But  she  was  calm  and  sad,  musing  alway 
On  loftiest  enterprise,  till  on  a  day 
The  tyrant  heard  her  singing  to  her  lute 
A  wild  and  sad  and  spirit-thrilling  lay, 
Like  winds  that  die  in  wa.stes  —  one  moment  mute 
The  evil  thoughts  it  made,  which  did  his  breast  pollute. 


Even  when  he  saw  her  wondrous  loveliness. 
One  moment  to  great  Nature's  sacred  power 
He  bent,  and  was  no  longer  passionless  ; 
But  when  he  bade  her  to  his  secret  bower 
Be  borne  a  loveless  victim,  and  she  tore 
Her  locks  in  agony,  and  her  words  of  flame 
And  mightier  looks  availed  not  —  then  he  bore 
Again  his  load  of  slavery,  and  became 
A  king,  a  heartless  beast,  a  pageant  and  a  name. 


She  told  me  what  a  loatlisome  agony 
Is  that  when  selfishness  mocks  love's  delight, 
Foul  as  in  dreams  mo.st  fearful  imagery 
To  dally  with  the  mowing  dead  :  that  night 
All  torture,  fear  or  hoiTor  made  seem  light 
Which  the  soul  dreams  or  knows,  and  when  the  day 
Shone  on  her  awful  phrensy,  from  the  sight 
Where  like  a  spirit  in  fleshly  chains  she  lay 
Struggling,  aghast  and  pale  the  tyrant  fled  away. 


Her  madness  was  a  beam  of  light,  a  power 

Which  dawned  through  the  rent  .«oul ;  and  words  it  gave. 

Gestures  and  looks,  such  as  in  whirlwinds  bore 

Which  might  not  be  withstood,  whence  none  could  save 

8 


114  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

All  who  approached  their  sphere,  like  some  calm  wave 
Vexed  into  whirlpools  by  the  chasms  beneath  ; 
And  sympathy  made  each  attendant  slave 
Fearless  and  free,  and  they  began  to  breathe 
Deep  curses,  like  the  voiqe  of  flames  far  underneath. 


The  king  felt  pale  upon  his  noonday  throne  : 
At  night  two  slaves  he  to  her  chamber  sent  — 
One  was  a  green  and  wrinkled  eunuch,  gi'own 
From  human  shape  into  an  instrument 
Of  all  things  ill  —  distorted,  bowed  and  bent. 
The  other  was  a  wretch  from  infancy 
Made  dumb  by  poison  ;  who  naught  knew  or  meant 
But  to  obey  :  from  the  fire-isles  came  he, 
A  diver  lean  and  strong,  of  Oman's  coral  sea. 


They  bore  her  to  a  bark,  and  the  swift  stroke 
Of  silent  rowers  clove  the  moonlight  seas, 
Until  upon  their  path  the  morning  broke ; 
They  anchored  then,  where,  be  there  calm  or  breeze, 
The  gloomiest  of  the  drear  Symplegades 
Shakes  with  the  sleepless  surge  ;  the  Ethiop  there 
Wound  his  long  arms  around  her,  and  with  knees 
Like  iron  clasped  her  feet,  and  plunged  with  her 
Among  the  closing  waves  out  of  the  boundless  air. 


"  Swift  as  an  eagle  stooping  from  the  plain 
Of  morning  light,  into  some  shadowy  wood, 
He  plunged  through  the  green  silence  of  the  main, 
Through  many  a  cavern  vi^hich  the  eternal  flood 
Had  scooped,  as  dark  lairs  for  its  monster  brood  ; 
And  among  mighty  shapes  which  fled  in  wonder, 
And  among  mightier  shadows  which  pursued 
His  heels,  he  wound  :  until  the  dark  rocks  under 
He  touched  a  golden  chain  —  a  sound  arose  like  thunder. 


"  A  stunning  clang  of  massive  bolts  redoubling 
Beneath  the  deep  —  a  burst  of  waters  driven 
As  from  the  roots  of  the  sea,  raging  and  bubbling : 
And  in  that  roof  of  crags  a  space  was  riven 
Through  which  there  shone  the  emerald  beams  of  heaven, 
Shot  through  the  lines  of  many  waves  inwoven. 
Like  sunlight  through  acacia-woods  at  even. 
Through  which,  his  way  the  diver  having  cloven, 
Passed  like  a  spark  sent  up  out  of  a  burning  oven. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  116 


"  And  then,"  she  said,  "  he  laid  me  in  a  cave 
Above  the  waters,  by  that  chasm  of  sea, 
A  fountain  round  and  vast,  in  which  the  wave 
Imprisoned,  boiled  and  leaped  perpetually, 
Down  which,  one  moment  resting,  he  did  flee, 
Winning  the  adverse  depth  ;  that  spacious  cell 
Like  an  upaithric  temple  wide  and  high, 
Whose  aery  dome  is  inaccessible. 
Was  pierced  with  one  round  cleft  through  which  the  sunbeams 
feU. 


"  Below,  the  fountain's  brink  was  richly  paven 
W^ith  the  deep's  wealth,  coral,  and  pearl,  and  sand 
Like  spangling  gold,  and  purple  shells  engi'aven 
With  mystic  legends  by  no  mortal  hand. 
Left  there,  when,  thronging  to  the  moon's  command, 
The  gathering  waves  rent  the  Hesperian  gate 
Of  mountains,  and  on  such  bright  floor  did  stand 
Columns,  and  shapes  like  statues,  and  the  state 
Of  kingless  thrones,  which  earth  did  in  her  heart  create. 


"  The  fiend  of  madness  which  had  made  its  prey 
Of  my  poor  heart,  was  lulled  to  sleep  awhile  : 
There  was  an  interval  of  many  a  day. 
And  a  sea-eagle  brought  me  food  the  while, 
Whose  nest  was  built  in  that  untrodden  isle, 
And  who  to  be  the  jailer,  had  been  taught. 
Of  that  strange  dungeon  ;  as  a  friend  w^hose  smile 
Like  light  and  rest  at  morn  and  even  is  sought, 
That  wild  bird  was  to  me,  till  madness  misery  brought ; 


"  The  misery  of  a  madness  slow  and  creeping, 
Which  made  the  earth  seem  fire,  the  sea  seem  air, 
And  the  white  clouds  of  noon  w^hich  oft  were  sleeping 
In  the  blue  heaven  so  beautiful  and  fair. 
Like  hosts  of  ghastly  shadows  hovering  there  ; 
And  the  sea  eagle  looked  a  fiend,  who  bore 
Thy  mangled  limbs  for  food  !  —  Thus  all  things  were 
Transformed  into  the  agony  which  I  wore, 
Even  as  a  poisoned  robe  around  my  bosom's  core. 


"  Again  I  knew  the  day  and  night  fast  fleeing. 
The  eagle,  and  the  fountain,  and  tlie  air; 
Another  phreusy  came  :  there  seemed  a  being 
Within  me  —  a  strange  load  my  heart  did  bear, 


116  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

As  if  some  living  thing  had  made  its  lair 
Even  in  the  fountains  of  my  life  —  a  long 
And  "wondrous  vision  v^^rought  from  my  despair, 
Then  grew,  like  sweet  reality  among 
Dim  visionary  woes,  an  unreposing  throng. 


"  Methought  I  was  about  to  be  a  mother  — 
Month  after  month  went  by,  and  still  I  dreamed 
That  we  should  soon  be  all  to  one  another, 
1  and  my  child  ;  and  still  new  pulses  seemed 
To  beat  beside  my  heart,  and  still  I  deemed 
There  was  a  babe  within  ;  and  when  the  rain 
Of  winter  through  the  rifted  cavern  streamed, 
Methought,  after  a  lapse  of  lingering  pain. 
1  saw  that  lovely  shape,  -which  near  my  heart  had  lain. 


"  It  was  a  babe,  beautiful  from  its  birth  — 
It  was  like  thee,  dear  love,  its  eyes  were  thine, 
Its  brow,  its  lips,  and  so  upon  the  earth 
It  laid  its  fingers,  as  now  rest  on  mine 
Thine  own,  beloved  :  'twas  a  dream  divine ; 
Even  to  remember  how  it  fled,  how  swift, 
How  utterly,  might  make  the  heart  repine  — 
Though  'twas  a  dream."  —  Then  Cythna  did  uplift 
Her  looks  on  mine,  as  if  some  doubt  she  sought  to  shift ; 

XIX. 

A  doubt  which  would  not  flee,  a  tenderness 
Of  questioning  grief,  a  source  of  thronging  tears ; 
Which,  having  passed,  as  one  whom  sobs  opprest. 
She  spoke  :  "  Yes,  in  the  wilderness  of  years 
Her  memory  ay  like  a  green  home  appears. 
She  sucked  her  fill  even  at  this  breast,  sweet  love, 
For  many  months.     I  had  no  mortal  fears  ; 
Methought  I  felt  her  lips  and  breath  approve  — 
It  was  a  human  thing  which  to  my  bosom  clove. 


"  I  watched  the  dawn  of  her  first  smiles,  and  soon 
"When  zenith-stars  were  trembling  on  the  wave. 
Or  when  the  beams  of  the  invisible  moon. 
Or  sun,  from  many  a  prism  w^ithin  the  cave 
Their  gem-born  shadows  to  the  water  gave. 
Her  looks  would  hunt  them,  and  with  outspread  hand, 
From  the  swift  lights  which  might  that  fountain  pave, 
She  would  mark  one,  and  laugh,  w^hen  that  command 
Slighting,  it  lingered  there,  and  could  not  understand. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  117 


"  Methought  her  looks  began  to  talk  with  me  ; 
And  no  articulate  sounds,  but  something  sweet 
Her  lips  would  frame  —  so  sweet,  it  could  not  be 
That  it  was  meaningless  ;  her  touch  -would  meet 
Mine,  and  our  pulses  calmly  flow  and  beat 
In  response  while  we  slept ;  and  on  a  day 
When  I  was  happiest  in  that  strange  retreat, 
With  heaps  of  golden  shells  we  two  did  play  — 
Both  infants,  weaving  wings  for  time's  perpetual  way. 


"  Ere  night,  methought,  her  waning  eyes  were  grown 
Weary  with  joy,  and  tired  with  our  delight. 
We,  on  the  earth,  like  sister  twins  lay  down 
On  one  fair  mother's  bosom  :  from  that  night 
She  fled  —  like  those  illusions  clear  and  bright, 
W^hich  dwell  in  lakes,  when  the  red  moon  on  high 
Pause  ere  it  wakens  tempest  —  and  her  flight. 
Though  'twas  the  death  of  brainless  phantasy, 
Yet  smote  my  lonesome  heart  more  than  all  miseiy. 


"  It  seemed  that  in  the  dreary  night,  the  diver 
Who  brought  me  thither,  came  again,  and  bore 
My  child  away.     I  saw  the  waters  quiver 
When  he  so  swiftly  sunk,  as  once  before  : 
Then  morning  came  —  it  shone  even  as  of  yore, 
But  I  was  changed  —  the  very  life  was  gone 
Out  of  my  heart  —  I  wasted  more  and  more, 
Day  after  day,  and  sitting  there  alone, 
Vexed  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  perpetual  moan. 


"  I  was  no  longer  mad,  and  yet  methought 
My  breasts  were  swol'n  and  changed  :  in  every  vein 
The  blood  stood  still  one  moment,  while  that  thought 
Was  passing  —  with  a  gush  of  sickening  pain 
It  ebbed  even  to  its  withered  springs  again  : 
When  my  wan  eyes  in  stem  resolve  I  turned 
From  that  most  strange  delusion,  which  would  fain 
Have  waked  the  dream  for  which  my  spirit  yearned 
With  more  than  human  love  —  then  left  it  unretumed. 


"  So  now  my  reason  w^as  restored  to  me, 
I  struggled  with  that  dream,  which,  like  a  beast 
Most  fierce  and  beauteous,  in  my  memory 
Had  made  its  lair,  and  on  my  heait  did  feast ; 


118  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

But  all  that  cave  and  all  Its  shapes  possest 
By  thoughts  which  could  not  fade,  renewed  each  one 
Some  smile,  some  look,  some  gesture  which  had  blest 
Me  heretofore  :  I,  sitting  there  alone, 
Vexed  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  perpetual  moan. 


"  Time  past,  I  know  not  whether  months  or  years ; 

For  day,  nor  night,  nor  change  of  seasons  made 

Its  note,  but  thoughts  and  unavailing  tears : 

And  I  became  at  last  even  as  a  shade, 

A  smoke,  a  cloud  on  w^hich  the  vv^inds  have  preyed, 

Till  it  be  thin  as  air ;  until,  one  even, 

A  Nautilus  upon  the  fountain  played, 

Spreading  his  azure  sail  where  breath  of  Heaven 

Descended  not,  among  the  waves  and  whirlpools  driven. 


"  And  when  the  Eagle  came,  that  lovely  thing, 
Oaring  w^ith  rosy  feet  its  silver  boat, 
Fled  near  me  as  for  shelter ;  on  slow  wing, 
The  Eagle,  hovering  o'er  his  prey,  did  float ; 
But  when  he  saw  that  I  with  fear  did  note 
His  purpose,  proiFering  my  ovv^n  food  to  him, 
The  eager  phames  subsided  on  his  throat — 
He  came  vv^here  that  bright  child  of  sea  did  swim, 
And  o'er  it  cast  in  peace  his  shadow  broad  and  dim. 


"  This  wakened  me,  it  gave  me  human  strength ; 
And  hope,  I  know  not  whence  or  wherefore,  rose. 
But  I  resumed  my  ancient  powers  at  length  ; 
My  spirit  felt  again  like  one  of  those. 
Like  thine,  whose  fate  it  is  to  make  the  woes 
Of  humankind  their  prey  —  what  was  this  cave  ? 
Its  deep  foundation  no  firm  purpose  knows 
Immutable,  resistless,  strong  to  save, 
Like  mind  while  yet  it  mocks  the  all-devouring  grave. 


"  And  w^here  was  Laon  ?  might  my  heart  be  dead, 
While  that  far  dearer  heart  could  move  and  be  ; 
Or  while  over  the  earth  the  pall  was  spread, 
Which  I  had  swoi-n  to  rend  ?  I  might  be  free, 
Could  I  but  win  that  friendly  bird  to  me, 
To  bring  me  ropes :  and  long  in  vain  I  sought 
By  intercourse  of  mutual  imagery 
Of  objects,  if  such  aid  he  could  be  taught ; 
But  fruit,  and  flowers,  and  boughs,  yet  never  ropes  he  brought. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  119 


*'  We  live  in  our  own  world,  and  mine  was  made 
From  glorious  phantasies  of  hope  departed  : 
Aye,  we  are  darkened  with  their  floating  shade, 
Or  cast  a  lustre  on  them  —  time  imparted 
Such  power  to  me,  I  became  fearless-hearted  ; 
My  eye  and  voice  grew^  firm,  calm  was  my  mind, 
And  piercing,  like  the  morn,  now  it  has  darted 
Its  lustre  on  all  hidden  things,  behind 
Yon  dim  and  fading  clouds  which  load  the  weary  wind. 


"  My  mind  became  the  book  through  which  I  grew 
Wise  in  all  human  wisdom,  and  its  cave, 
Which  like  a  mine  I  rifled  through  and  through, 
To  me  the  keeping  of  its  secrets  gave — 
One  mind,  the  type  of  all,  the  moveless  wave 
W^hose  calm  reflects  all  moving  things  that  are, 
Necessity,  and  love,  and  life,  the  grave, 
And  sympathy,  fountains  of  hope  and  fear ; 
Justice,  and  truth,  and  time,  and  the  world's  natural  sphere. 


"  And  on  the  sand  would  I  make  signs  to  range 
These  woofs,  as  they  were  woven,  of  my  thought ; 
Clear  elemental  shapes,  whose  smallest  change 
A  subtler  language  within  language  wrought : 
The  key  of  truths  which  once  were  dimly  taught 
In  old  Crotona  ;  and  sweet  melodies 
Of  love,  in  that  lone  solitude  I  caught 
From  mine  own  voice  in  dream,  when  thy  dear  eyes 
Shone  through  my  sleep,  and  did  that  utterance  harmonize. 


"  Thy  songs  were  winds  whereon  I  fled  at  will, 
As  in  a  winged  chariot,  o'er  the  plain 
Of  crystal  youth;  and  thou  wert  there  to  fill 
My  heart  with  joy,  and  there  we  sate  again 
On  the  gray  margin  of  the  glimmering  main, 
Happy  as  then  but  wiser  far,  for  we 
Smiled  on  the  flowery  grave  in  which  were  lain 
Fear,  Faith,  and  Slavery  ;  and  njgnkind  was  free, 
Equal,  and  pure,  and  wise,  in  wisdom's  prophecy. 


"  For  to  my  will  my  fancies  were  as  slaves 

To  do  their  sweet  and  subtle  ministries ; 

And  oft  from  that  bright  fountain's  shadowy  waves 

They  would  make  human  throngs  gather  and  rise 


120  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

To  combat  with  my  ovei-flowing  eyes, 
And  voice  made  deep  with  passion —  Thus  I  grew 
Familiar  -with  the  shock  and  the  surprise 
And  w^ar  of  earthly  minds  from  wliich  I  drew 
The  power  which  has  been  mine  to  frame  their  thoughts  anew. 


"  And  thus  my  prison  was  the  populous  earth — 
Where  I  saw  —  even  as  misery  dreams  of  mom 
Before  the  east  has  given  its  glory  birth  — 
Religion's  pomp  made  desolate  by  the  scorn 
Of  wisdom's  faintest  smile,  and  thrones  uptorn, 
And  dwellings  of  mild  people  interspersed 
With  undivided  fields  of  ripening  corn. 
And  love  made  free,  a  hope  which  we  have  nurst 
Even  with  our  blood  and  tears,  until  its  glory  burst. 


"  All  is  not  lost !     There  is  some  recompense 
For  hope  whose  fountain  can  be  thus  profound. 
Even  throned  Evil's  splendid  impotence. 
Girt  by  its  hell  of  power,  the  secret  sound 
Of  hymns  to  truth  and  freedom  —  the  dread  bound 
Of  life  and  death  passed  fearlessly  and  well. 
Dungeons  wherein  the  high  resolve  is  found. 
Racks  which  degraded  woman's  greatness  tell, 
And  what  may  else  be  good  and  irresistible. 


"  Such  are  the  thoughts  which,  like  the  fires  that  flare 
In  storm-encompassed  isles,  we  cherish  yet 
In  this  dark  ruin  —  such  were  mine  even  there  ; 
As  in  its  sleep  some  odorous  violet. 
While  yet  its  leaves  with  nightly  dews  are  wet, 
Breathes  in  prophetic  dreams  of  day's  uprise, 
Or,  as  ere  Scythian  frost  in  fear  has  met 
Sprmg's  messengers  descending  from  the  skies, 
The  buds  foreknow  their  life  —  this  hope  must  ever  rise. 


"  So  years  had  past,  when  sudden  earthquake  rent 
The  depth  of  ocean,  and  the  cavern  crackt 
With  sound,  as  if  the  world's  wide  continent 
Had  fallen  in  universal  ruin  wrackt ; 
And  through  the  cleft  streamed  in  one  cataract 
The  stifling  v^aters :  w^hen  I  woke,  the  flood, 
W^hose  banded  weaves  that  crystal  cave  had  sacked, 
Was  ebbing  round  me,  and  my  bright  abode 
Before  me  yawned  —  a  chasm  desert,  and  bare,  and  broad. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  121 


X  JQX  IX. 


"  Above  me  was  the  sky,  beneath  the  sea  : 
I  stood  upon  a  point  of  shattered  stone, 
And  heard  loose  rocks  rushing  tumultuously 
With  splash  and  shock  into  the  deep  —  anon 
All  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  w^ide  and  lone. 
I  felt  that  I  was  free!     The  Ocean-spray 
Cluivered  beneath  my  feet,  the  broad  Heaven  shone 
Around,  and  in  my  hair  the  winds  did  play, 
Lingering  as  they  pursued  their  unimpeded  way. 


"  My  spirit  moved  upon  the  sea  like  wind 
Which  round  some  thymy  cape  will  lag  and  hover, 
Though  it  can  wake  the  still  cloud,  and  unbind 
The  strength  of  tempest :  day  was  almost  over, 
When  through  the  fading  light  I  could  discover 
A  ship  approaching  —  its  w^hite  sails  w^ere  fed 
With  the  north  wind  —  its  moving  shade  did  cover 
The  twilight  deep  ;  the  mariners  in  dread 
Cast  anchor  when  they  saw  new^  rocks  around  them  spread. 


"  And  vv^hen  they  saw  one  sitting  on  a  crag, 
They  sent  a  boat  to  me ;  the  sailors  rowed 
In  awe  through  many  a  new  and  fearful  jag 
Of  overhanging  rock,  through  which  there  flowed 
The  foam  of  streams  that  can  not  make  abode. 
They  came  and  questioned  me,  but,  when  they  heard 
My  voice,  they  became  silent,  and  they  stood 
And  moved  as  men  in  whom  new  love  had  stirred 
Deep  thoughts ;  so  to  the  ship  w^e  past  without  a  word. 


CANTO  VIII. 


"  I  SATE  beside  the  steersman  then,  and.  gazing 
Upon  the  west,  cried,  '  Spread  the  sails !  behold  ! 
The  sinking  moon  is  like  a  watch-tower  blazing 
Over  the  mountains  yet ;  the  City  of  Gold 
Yon  Cape  alone  does  from  the  sight  withhold  ; 
The  stream  is  fleet  —  the  north  breathes  steadily 
Beneath  the  stars  ;  they  tremble  with  the  cold  ! 
Ye  can  not  rest  upon  the  dreary  sea ; 
Haste,  haste  to  the  warm  home  of  happier  destiny  !' 


122  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


"  The  Mariners  obeyed  —  the  Captain  stood 
Aloof,  and,  whispering  to  the  Pilot,  said, 
'  Alas,  alas  !  I  fear  we  are  pursued 
By  wicked  ghosts  :  a  Phantom  of  the  Dead. 
The  night  before  we  sailed,  came  to  my  bed 
In  dream,  like  that !'     The  Pilot  then  replied, 
'It  can  not  be  —  she  is  a  human  Maid  — 
Her  low  voice  makes  you  weep  —  she  is  some  bride. 
Or  daughter  of  high  birth  —  she  can  be  naught  beside.' 


"  We  past  the  islets  borne  by  wind  and  stream, 
And  as  we  sailed,  the  Mariners  came  near 
And  thronged  around  to  listen  ;  in  the  gleam 
Of  the  pale  moon  I  stood,  as  one  whom  fear 
May  not  attaint,  and  my  calm  voice  did  rear ; 
'Ye  are  all  human  —  Yon  broad  moon  gives  light 
To  millions  who  the  selfsame  likeness  wear. 
Even  while  I  speak  —  beneath  this  very  night, 
Their  tlioughts  flow  on  like  ours  in  sadness  or  delight. 


"  '  What  dream  ye  ?     Your  own  hands  have  built  a  home. 
Even  for  yourselves  on  a  beloved  shore  : 
For  some,  fond  eyes  are  pining  till  they  come. 
How  they  will  greet  him  when  his  toils  are  o'er, 
And  laughing  babes  rash  from  the  well-known  door  ! 
Is  this  your  care  ?  ye  toil  for  your  own  good  — 
Ye  feel  and  think  —  has  some  immortal  power 
Such  purposes  ?  or  in  a  human  mood. 
Dream  ye  some  Power  tlius  builds  for  man  in  solitude  ? 


"  '  What  is  that  Power  ?     Ye  mock  yourselves,  and  give 
A  human  heart  to  what  ye  can  not  know  : 
As  if  the  cause  of  life  could  think  and  live  ! 
'Twere  as  if  man's  own  works  should  feel,  and  show 
The  hopes  and  fears  and  thoughts  from  which  they  flow, 
And  he  be  like  to  them.     Lo  !  Plague  is  free 
To  waste,  BHght,  Poison,  Earthquake,  Hail  and  Snow, 
Disease  and  Want  and  worse  Necessity 
Of  hate  and  ill,  and  Pride  and  Fear  and  Tyranny. 


"  '  What  is  that  power  ?     Some  moon-struck  sophist  stood 
Watching  the  shade  from  his  own  soul  upthrown 
rill  Heaven  and  darken  Earth,  and  in  .such  mood 
The  form  he  saw  and  worshiped  was  his  own, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  123 

His  likeness  in  the  world's  vast  mirror  shown  ; 
And  'twere  an  innocent  dream,  but  that  a  faith 
Nursed  by  fear's  dew  of  poison,  grows  thereon, 
And  that  men  say  that  Power  has  chosen  Death 
On  all  who  scorn  its  laws,  to  wreak  immortal  wrath. 


VII. 

"  '  Men  say  that  they  themselves  have  heard  and  seen, 
Or  known  from  others  who  have  known  such  things, 
A  Shade,  a  Form,  which  Earth  and  Heaven  between 
Wields  an  invisible  rod  —  that  Priests  and  Kings, 
Custom,  domestic  sway,  aye,  all  that  brings 
Man's  free-born  soul  beneath  the  oppressor's  heel. 
Are  his  strong  ministers,  and  that  the  stings 
Of  death  will  make  the  wise  his  vengeance  feel. 
Though  truth  and  virtue  arm  their  hearts  with  tenfold  steel 


"'And  it  is  said,  this  power  will  punish  wrong; 
Yes,  add  despair  to  crime,  and  pain  to  pain ! 
And  deepest  hell  and  deathless  snakes  among. 
Will  bind  the  wretch  on  whom  is  fixed  a  stain, 
Which,  like  a  plague,  a  burthen  and  a  bane. 
Clung  to  him  while  he  lived  ;  for  love  and  hate, 
Virtue  and  vice,  they  say  are  diiference  vain  — 
The  will  of  strength  is  right  —  this  human  state 
Tyrants,  that  they  may  rule  with  lies,  thus  desolate. 


IX. 

"  '  Alas,  what  strength  ?     Opinion  is  more  frail 
Than  yon  dim  cloud  now  fading  on  the  moon 
Even  w^hile  we  gaze,  though  it  awhile  avail 
To  hide  the  orb  of  truth  —  and  every  throne 
Of  Earth  or  Heaven,  though  shadows  rest  thereon, 
One  shape  of  many  names  :  for  this  ye  plow 
The  barren  waves  of  ocean  ;  hence  each  one 
Is  slave  or  tyrant ;  all  betray  and  bow, 
Command,  or  kill,  or  fear,  or  wreak,  or  suffer  woe. 


"  '  Its  names  are  each  a  sign  which  maketh  holy 
All  power  —  aye,  the  ghost,  the  dream,  the  shade. 
Of  power  —  lust,  falsehood,  hate  and  pride  and  folly  ] 
The  pattern  whence  all  fraud  and  wrong  is  made, 
A  law  to  which  mankind  has  been  betrayed ; 
And  human  love,  is  as  the  name  well  known 
Of  a  dear  mother,  whom  the  murderer  laid 
In  bloody  grave,  and,  into  darkness  thrown. 
Gathered  her  wildered  babes  around  him  as  his  own. 


124  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM, 


"  '  O  Love  !  who  to  the  hearts  of  wandering  men 
Art  as  the  calm  to  ocean's  weary  waves  ! 
Justice,  or  truth,  or  joy  !  thou  only  can 
From  slavery  and  religion's  labyrinth  caves 
Guide  us,  as  one  clear  star  the  seaman  saves. 
To  give  to  all  an  equal  share  of  good, 
To  track  the  steps  of  Freedom,  though  through  graves 
She  pass,  to  suffer  all  in  patient  mood. 
To  weep  for  crime,  though  stained  with  thy  friend's  dearest  blood. 


"  '  To  feel  the  peace  of  self-contentment's  lot, 
To  own  all  sympathies,  and  outrage  none, 
And,  in  the  inmost  bowers  of  sense  and  thought, 
Until  life's  sunny  day  is  quite  gone  down. 
To  sit  and  smile  with  Joy,  or,  not  alone. 
To  kiss  salt  tears  from  the  worn  cheek  of  Woe  : 
To  live,  as  if  to  love  and  live  were  one  — 
This  is  not  faith  or  law.  nor  those  who  bow 
To  thrones  on  heaven  or  earth,  such  destiny  may  know. 


"  '  But  children  near  their  parents  tremble  now, 
Because  they  must  obey  —  one  rules  another, 
And  as  one  Power  rules  both  high  and  low, 
So  man  is  made  the  captive  of  his  brother, 
And  Hate  is  throned  on  high  with  Fear  her  mother, 
Above  the  Highest ;  and  those  fountain  cells, 
Whence  love  yet  flowed  when  faith  had  choked  all  other, 
Are  darkened  :  woman,  as  the  bond-slave,  dwells 
Of  man,  a  slave  ;  and  life  is  poisoned  in  its  wells. 


"  '  Man  seeks  for  gold  in  mines,  that  he  may  weave 
A  lasting  chain  for  his  own  slavery  ; 
In  fear  and  restless  care  that  he  may  live, 
He  toils  for  others,  who  must  ever  be 
The  joyless  thralls  of  like  captivity  ; 
He  murders,  for  his  chiefs  delight  in  ruin ; 
He  builds  the  altar,  that  its  idol's  fee 
May  be  his  very  blood  ;  he  is  pursuing, 
O,  blind  and  willing  wretch  !  his  own  obscure  undoing. 


"  '  Woman  !  —  she  is  his  slave,  she  has  become 
A  thing  I  weep  to  speak  —  the  child  of  scorn, 
The  outcast  of  a  desolated  home. 
Falsehood,  and  fear,  and  toil,  like  waves,  have  worn 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  125 

Channels  upon  her  cheek,  which  smiles  adorn, 
As  calm  decks  the  false  ocean  :  well  ye  know 
What  woman  is.  for  none  of  woman  born 
Can  choose  but  drain  the  bitter  dregs  of  woe, 
Which  ever  from  the  oppressed  to  the  oppressors  flow. 


"  '  This  need  not  be  ;  ye  might  arise,  and  will 
That  gold  should  lose  its  power,  and  thrones  their  glory  ; 
That  love,  which  none  may  bind,  be  free  to  fill 
The  world,  like  light ;  and  evil  faith,  grown  hoaiy 
With  crime,  be  quenched  and  die.     Yon  promontory 
Even  now  eclipses  the  descending  moon  !  — 
Dungeons  and  palaces  are  transitory  — 
High  temples  fade  like  vapor  —  man  alone 
Remains,  whose  will  has  power  when  all  beside  is  gone. 


" '  Let  all  be  free  and  equal !  —  From  your  hearts 
I  feel  an  echo  ;  through  my  inmost  frajiie 
Like  sweetest  sound,  seeking  its  mate,  it  darts: 
Whence  come  ye,  friends  ?    Alas  !  I  can  not  name 
All  that  I  read  of  sorrow,  toil  and  shame, 
On  your  worn  faces  ;  as  in  legends  old 
Which  make  immortal  the  disastrous  fame 
Of  conquerors  and  impostors  false  and  bold, 
The  discord  of  your  hearts  I  in  your  looks  behold. 


"  '  Whence  come  ye,  friends  ?  from  pouring  human  blood 
Forth  on  the  earth  /  or  bring  ye  steel  and  gold, 
That  kings  may  dupe  and  slay  the  multitude  ? 
Or  from  the  famished  poor,  pale,  weak  and  cold, 
Bear  ye  the  earnings  of  their  toil  ?    Unfold  ! 
Speak  !  are  your  hands  in  slaughter's  sanguine  hue 
Stained  freshly  ?  have  your  hearts  in  guile  grown  old  ? 
Know  yourselves  thus  ?    Ye  .shall  be  pure  as  dew, 
And  I  will  be  a  friend  and  sister  unto  you. 


"  '  Disguise  it  not  —  w^e  have  one  human  heart  — 
All  mortal  thoughts  confess  a  conmion  home  : 
Blush  not  for  what  may  to  thyself  impart 
Stains  of  inevitable  crime :  the  doom 
Is  this,  which  has,  or  may,  or  must,  become 
Thine,  and  all  humankind's.     Ye  are  the  spoil 
Which  Time  thus  marks  for  the  devouring  tomb, 
Thou  and  thy  thoughts  and  they,  and  all  the  toil 
Wherewith  ye  twine  the  rings  of  life's  perpetual  coil. 


126  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


"  '  Disguise  it  not :  ye  blush  for  what  ye  hate, 
And  Enmity  is  sister  unto  Shame  : 
Look  on  your  mind  —  it  is  the  book  of  fate  — 
Ah !  it  is  dark  witli  many  a  blazoned  name 
Of  misery  :  all  are  mirrors  of  the  same  ; 
But  the  dark  fiend  who  with  his  iron  pen 
Dipped  in  scorn's  fieiy  poison,  makes  his  fame 
Enduring  there,  would  o'er  the  heads  of  men 
Pass  harmless,  if  they  scorned  to  make  their  hearts  his  den. 


"  '  Yes,  it  is  Hate,  that  shapeless,  fiendly  thing 
Of  many  names,  all  evil,  some  divine, 
Whom  self-contempt  arms  with  a  mortal  sting ; 
Which,  when  the  heart  its  snaky  folds  entwine, 
Is  wasted  quite,  and  when  it  doth  repine 
To  gorge  such  bitter  prey,  on  all  beside 
It  turns  with  ninefold  rage,  as  with  its  twine 
When  Amphisbaena  some  fair  bird  has  tied, 
Soon  o'er  the  putrid  mass  he  thi'eats  on  every  side. 


"  '  Reproach  not  thine  own  soul,  but  know  thyself, 
Nor  hate  another's  crime,  nor  loathe  thine  ow^n. 
It  is  the  dark  idolatry  of  self. 

Which,  when  our  thoughts  and  actions  once  are  gone, 
Demands  that  man  should  weep,  and  bleed,  and  groan : 
O  vacant  expiation  !  be  at  rest. — 
The  past  is  Death's,  the  future  is  thine  own  ; 
And  love  and  joy  can  make  the  foulest  breast 
A  paradise  of  flowers,  where  Peace  might  build  her  nest. 

XXTII. 

"  *  Speak  thou  !  whence  come  ye  ?'  —  A  youth  made  reply, 
*  Wearily,  wearily  o'er  the  boundless  deep 
We  sail ;  thou  readest  well  the  misery 
Told  in  these  faded  eyes,  but  much  doth  sleep 
Within,  which  there  the  poor  heart  loves  to  keep, 
Or  dare  not  write  on  the  dishonored  brow  ; 
Even  from  our  childhood  have  we  learned  to  steep 
The  bread  of  slavery  in  the  tears  of  woe. 
And  never  dreamed  of  hope  or  refuge  until  now. 


"  '  Yes  —  I  must  speak  —  my  secret  would  have  perished 
Even  with  the  heart  it  wa.sted,  as  a  brand 
Fades  in  the  dying  flame  whose  life  it  cherished, 
But  that  no  human  bosom  can  withstand 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  127 

Thee,  wondrous  lady,  and  the  mild  command 
Of  thy  keen  eyes  :  yes,  we  are  wretched  slaves, 
Who  from  their  wonted  loves  and  native  land 
Are  reft,  and  bear  o'er  the  dividing  waves 
The  unregarded  prey  of  calm  and  happy  graves. 


'"We  drag  afar  from  pastoral  vales  the  fairest 
Among  the  daughters  of  those  mountains  lone, 
We  drag  them  there,  where  all  things  best  and  rarest 
Are  stained  and  trampled  :  years  have  come  and  gone 
Since,  like  the  ship  which  bears  me,  I  have  known 
No  thought ;  but  now  the  eyes  of  one  -dear  maid 
On  mine  with  light  of  mutual  love  have  shone  — 
She  is  my  life  —  I  am  but  as  the  shade 
Of  her  —  a  smoke  sent  up  from  ashes,  soon  to  fade. 


"  '  For  she  must  perish  in  the  tyrant's  hall  — 
Alas,  alas  !'  —  He  ceased,  and  by  the  sail 
Sate  cowering ;  but  his  sobs  were  heard  by  all, 
And  still  before  the  ocean  and  the  gale 
The  ship  fled  fast  till  the  stars  "gan  to  fail ; 
All  round  me  gathered  with  mute  countenance, 
The  seamen  gazed,  the  pilot,  worn  and  pale 
With  toil,  the  captain  with  gray  locks,  whose  glance 
Met  mine  in  restless  awe  —  they  stood  as  in  a  trance. 


"  '  Recede  not !  pause  not  now  !  thou  art  grown  old. 
But  Hope  will  make  thee  young,  for  Hope  and  Youth 
Are  children  of  one  mother,  even  Love  —  behold  ! 
The  eternal'stars  gaze  on  us  !  — is  the  truth 
Within  your  soul  ?  care  for  your  own,  or  ruth 
For  others'  sufferings  ?  do  ye  thirst  to  bear 
A  heart  which  not  the  serpent  custom's  tooth 
May  violate  ?  —  Be  free  !  and  even  here, 
Swear  to  be  firm  till  death !'     They  cried, '  We  swear,  we  swear !' 


"  The  very  darkness  shook,  as  with  a  blast 
Of  subterranean  thunder,  at  the  cry  ; 
The  hollow  shore  its  thousand  echoes  cast 
Into  the  night,  as  if  the  sea  and  sky 
And  earth  rejoiced  with  new-born  Liberty, 
For  in  that  name  they  swore  !    Bolts  were  undrawn, 
And  on  the  deck,  w^ith  unaccustomed  eye 
The  captives  gazing  stood,  and  every  one 
Shrank  as  the  inconstant  torch  upon  her  countenance  shone- 


128  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAl 


XXIX. 

"  They  were  earth's  purest  children,  young  and  fair. 
With  eyes  the  shrines  of  unawakened  thought, 
And  brows  as  bright  as  spring  or  morning,  ere 
Dark  time  had  there  its  evil  legend  wrought 
In  characters  of  cloud  which  wither  not. — 
The  change  w^as  like  a  dream  to  them  ;  but  soon 
They  knew  the  glory  of  their  altered  lot 
In  the  bright  wisdom  of  youth's  breathless  noon. 
Sweet  talk,  and  smiles,  and  sighs,  all  bosoms  did  attune. 


"  But  one  was  mute,  her  cheeks  and  lips  most  fair, 
Changing  their  hue  like  lilies  newly  blown. 
Beneath  a  bright  acacia's  shadowy  hair. 
Waved  by  the  wind  amid  the  sunny  noon, 
Showed  that  her  soul  was  quivering  ;  and  full  soon 
That  youth  arose,  and  breathlessly  did  look 
On  her  and  me,  as  for  some  speechless  boon  : 
I  smiled,  and  both  their  hands  in  mine  I  took. 
And  felt  a  soft  delight  from  what  their  spirits  shook. 


CANTO  IX. 


"  That  night  we  anchored  in  a  woody  bay. 
And  sleep  no  more  around  us  dared  to  hover 
Than,  when  all  doubt  and  fear  has  passed  a'way, 
It  shades  the  couch  of  some  unresting  lover. 
Whose  heart  is  now  at  rest :  thus  night  passed  over 
In  mutual  joy  :  around,  a  forest  grew 
Of  poplars  and  dark  oaks,  v^^hose  shade  did  cover 
The  waning  stars,  pranked  in  the  waters  blue, 
And  trembled  in  the  wind  which  from  the  morning  flew. 


"  The  joyous  mariners,  and  each  free  maiden, 
Now  brought  from  the  deep  forest  many  a  bough. 
With  woodland  spoil  most  innocently  laden  ; 
Soon  wreaths  of  budding  foliage  seemed  to  flow 
Over  the  mast  and  sails,  the  stern  and  prow 
W^ere  canopied  with  blooming  boughs  —  the  Avhile 
On  the  slant  sun's  path  o'er  the  waves  we  go 
Rejoicing,  like  the  dwellers  of  an  isle 
Doomed  to  pursue  those  waves  that  can  not  cease  to  smile. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  129 


"  The  many  ships  spotting  the  dark  blue  deep 
"With  snowy  sails,  lied  fast  as  ours  came  nigh, 
In  fear  and  wonder  ;  and  on  every  steep 
Thousands  did  gaze  :  they  heard  the  startling  cry, 
Like  Earth's  own  voice  lifted  unconquerably 
To  all  her  children,  the  unbounded  mirth, 
The  glorious  joy  of  thy  name — Liberty  ! 
They  heard  !  —  As  o'er  the  mountains  of  the  earth 
From  peak  to  peak  leap  on  the  beams  of  morning's  birth 


"  So  from  that  cry  over  the  boundless  hills, 
Sudden  was  caught  one  universal  sound. 
Like  a  volcano's  voice,  whose  thunder  fills 
Remotest  skies  —  such  glorious  madness  found 
A  path  through  human  hearts  with  stream  which  drowned 
Its  struggling  fears  and  cares,  dark  custom's  brood  ; 
They  knew  not  whence  it  came,  but  felt  around 
A  vi^ide  contagion  poured  —  they  called  aloud 
On  Liberty  —  that  name  lived  on  the  sunny  flood. 


"  "We  reached  the  port  —  alas  !  from  many  spirits 
The  wisdom  which  had  waked  that  ciy  was  fled, 
Like  the  brief  glory  which  dark  heaven  inherits 
From  the  false  dawn,  which  fades  ere  it  is  spread. 
Upon  the  night's  devouring  darkness  shed  : 
Yet  soon  bright  day  will  burst  —  even  like  a  chasm 
Of  fire,  to  burn  the  shrouds  outworn  and  dead. 
Which  wrap  the  world  :  a  %vide  enthusiasm. 
To  cleanse  the  fevered  world  as  with  an  earthquake's  spasm ! 


"  I  walked  through  the  great  city  then,  but  free 
From  shame  or  fear ;  those  toil-worn  mariners 
And  happy  maidens  did  encompass  me  ; 
And  like  a  subterranean  wind  that  stirs 
Some  forest  among  caves,  the  hopes  and  fears 
From  every  human  soul,  a  murmur  strange 
Made  as  I  passed  ;  and  many  wept,  with  tears 
Of  joy  and  awe,  and  winged  thoughts  did  range, 
And  half-extinguished  words,  which  prophesied  of  change 


"  For  with  strong  speech  I  tore  the  veil  that  hid 
Nature,  and  Truth,  and  Liberty,  and  Love  — 
As  one  who,  from  some  mountain's  pyramid. 
Points  to  the  unrisen  sun  !  —  the  shades  approve 
9 


130  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

His  truth,  and  flee  from  every  stream  and  grove. 
Thus,  gentle  thoughts  did  many  a  bosom  fill  — 
Wisdom  the  mail  of  tried  affections  wove 
For  many  a  heart,  and  tameless  scorn  of  ill 
Thrice  steeped  in  molten  steel  the  unconquerable  will. 


"  Some  said  I  was  a  maniac  w^ild  and  lost ; 
Some,  that  I  scarce  had  risen  from  the  grave 
The  prophet's  virgin  bride,  a  heavenly  ghost : 
Some  said  I  was  a  fiend  from  my  weird  cave, 
Who  had  stolen  human  shape,  and  o'er  the  wave, 
The  forest,  and  the  mountain,  came  :  some  said 
I  was  the  child  of  God,  sent  down  to  save 
Women  from  bonds  and  death,  and  on  my  head 
The  burden  of  their  sins  would  frightfully  be  laid. 


"  But  soon  my  human  words  found  sympathy 
In  human  hearts  :  the  purest  and  the' best. 
As  friend  vv^ith  friend  made  common  cause  with  me, 
And  they  were  few,  but  resolute  ;  the  rest. 
Ere  yet  success  the  enterprise  had  blest. 
Leagued  with  me  in  their  hearts  ;  their  meals,  their  slumber, 
Their  hourly  occupations,  were  possest 
By  hopes  which  I  had  armed  to  overnumber 
Those  hosts  of  meaner  cares,  w^hich  life's  strong  wings  encumber. 


"  But  chiefly  w^omen,  w^hom  my  voice  did  waken 
From  their  cold,  careless,  willing  slavery. 
Sought  me  :  one  truth  their  dreary  prison  has  shaken  - 
They  looked  around,  and  lo  !  they  became  free  ! 
Their  many  tyrants  sitting  desolately 
In  slave-deserted  halls,  could  none  restrain  ; 
For  W"rath's  red  fire  had  withered  in  the  eye 
Whose  lightning  once  was  death  —  nor  fear  nor  gain 
Could  tempt  one  captive  now  to  lock  another's  chain. 


"  Those  who  were  sent  to  bind  me  wept,  and  felt 
Their  minds  outsoar  the  bonds  which  clasped  them  round. 
Even  as  a  waxen  shape  may  waste  and  melt 
In  the  white  furnace  ;  and  a  visioned  swound, 
A  pause  of  hope  and  awe,  the  city  bound, 
Which,  like  the  silence  of  a  tempest's  birth. 
When  in  its  aw^ful  shadow  it  has  v^^ound 
The  sun,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  and  the  earth. 
Hung  terrible,  ere  yet  the  lightnings  have  leaped  forth. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  131 


"  Like  clouds  inwoven  in  the  silent  sky 
By  "winds  from  distant  regions  meeting  there, 
In  the  high  name  of  truth  and  liberty 
Around  the  city  millions  gathered  were, 
By  hopes  which  sprang  from  many  a  hidden  lair  ; 
Words,  which  the  lore  of  truth  in  hues  of  grace 
Arrayed,  thine  own  wild  songs  which  in  the  air 
Like  homeless  odors  floated,  and  the  name 
Of  thee,  and  maxiy  a  tongue  which  thou  hadst  dipped  in  flame. 


"  The  tyrant  knew  his  power  was  gone,  but  Fear, 
The  nurse  of  Vengeance,  bade  him  wait  the  event  — 
That  perfidy  and  custom,  gold  and  prayer, 
And  whatsoe'er,  when  force  is  impotent, 
To  fraud  the  sceptre  of  the  world  has  lent. 
Might,  as  he  judged,  confirm  his  failing  sway. 
Therefore  throughout  the  streets  the  priests  he  sent 
To  curse  the  rebels.     To  their  gods  did  they 
For  Earthquake,  Plague,  and  Want,  kneel  in  the  public  way. 


"  And  grave  and  hoary  men  were  bribed  to  tell 
From  seats  where  law  is  made  the  slave  of  wrong, 
How^  glorious  Athens  in  her  splendor  fell, 
Because  her  sons  v^eve  free  —  and  that  among 
Mankind  the  many  to  the  few  belong. 
By  Heaven,  and  Nature,  and  Necessity. 
They  said  that  age  was  truth,  and  that  the  young 
Man'ed  with  wild  hopes  the  peace  of  slaveiy. 
With  which  old  times  and  men  had  quelled  the  vain  and  free. 


"  And  with  the  falsehood  of  their  poisonous  lips 
They  breathed  on  the  enduring  memory 
Of  sages  and  of  bards  a  brief  eclipse  ; 
There  was  one  teacher  whom  necessity 
Had  armed  with  strength  and  wrong  against  mankind, 
His  slave  and  his  avenger  aye  to  be  ; 
That  we  were  weak  and  sinful,  frail  and  blind, 
And  that  the  will  of  one  was  peace,  and  we 
Should  seek  for  naught  on  earth  but  toil  and  misery. 


"  '  For  thus  we  might  avoid  the  hell  hereafter.' 
So  spake  the  hypoci'ites,  who  cursed  and  lied  : 
Alas  !  their  sway  was  past,  and  tears  and  laughter 
Clung  to  their  hoary  hair,  withering  the  pride 


132  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Which  in  their  hollow  hearts  dared  still  abide  ; 
And  yet  obscener  slaves  with  smoother  brov^^, 
And  sneers  on  their  strait  lips,  thin,  blue,  and  wide. 
Said  that  the  rule  of  men  was  over  now, 
And  hence  the  subject  world  to  woman's  will  must  bow 


'*  And  gold  was  scattered  through  the  streets,  and  wine 
Flowed  at  a  hundred  feasts  within  the  wall. 
In  vain  !    The  steady  towers  in  heaven  did  shine 
As  they  were  wont,  nor  at  the  priestly  call 
Left  Plague  her  banquet  in  the  Ethiop's  hall, 
Nor  Famine  from  the  rich  man's  portal  came, 
Where  at  her  ease  she  ever  preys  on  all 
Who  throng  to  kneel  for  food  :  nor  fear,  nor  shame, 
Nor  faith,  nor  discord,  dimmed  hope's  newly-kindled  flame. 


"  For  gold  was  as  a  god  whose  faith  began 
To  fade,  so  that  its  w^orshipers  w^ere  few. 
And  Faith  itself,  which  in  the  heart  of  man 
Gives  shape,  voice,  name,  to  spectral  Terror,  knew 
Its  downfall,  as  the  altars  lonelier  grew, 
Till  the  priests  stood  alone  within  the  fane  ; 
The  shafts  of  falsehood  unpoUnting  flew. 
And  the  cold  sneers  of  calumny  were  vain 
The  union  of  the  free  with  discord's  brand  to  stain. 


"  The  rest  thou  kno'west.     Lo  !  we  two  are  here  — 
We  have  survived  a  ruin  v^ide  and  deep  — 
Strange  thoughts  are  mine.     I  can  not  grieve  nor  fear, 
Sitting  w^ith  thee  upon  this  lonely  steep 
I  smile,  though  human  love  should  make  me  weep. 
We  have  survived  a  joy  that  knows  no  sorrow, 
And  I  do  feel  a  mighty  calmness  creep 
Over  my  heart,  which  can  no  longer  borrow 
Its  hues  from  chance  or  change,  dark  children  of  to-morrow. 


"  We  know  not  what  will  come  —  yet,  Laon,  dearest, 
Cythna  shall  be  the  prophetess  of  love, 
Her  lips  shall  rob  thee  of  the  grace  thou  wearest. 
To  hide  thy  heart,  and  clothe  the  shapes  vi^hich  rove 
Within  the  homeless  future's  wintry  grove  ; 
For  I  now,  sitting  thus  beside  thee,  seem 
Even  with  thy  breath  and  blood  to  live  and  move, 
And  violence  and  wrong  are  as  a  dream 
Which  rolls  from  steadfast  truth,  an  unreturning  stream. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  133 


"  The  blasts  of  autumn  drive  the  winged  seeds 
Over  the  earth  —  next  come  the  snows  and  rain 
And  frosts  and  storms  which  dreary  Winter  leads 
Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage  train; 
Behold  !  Spring  sweeps  over  the  world  again, 
Shedding  soft  dews  from  her  ethereal  wings  ; 
Flowers  on  the  mountains,  fruits  over  the  plain, 
And  music  on  the  weaves  and  woods  she  flings, 
And  love  on  all  that  lives,  and  calm  on  lifeless  things. 


*•  O  Spring  !  of  hope  and  love  and  youth  and  gladness 
Wind-winged  emblem  !  brightest,  best  and  fairest ! 
Whence  comest  thou,  when  with  dark  Winter's  sadness 
The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou  sharest  ? 
Sister  of  Joy  !  thou  art  the  child  who  w^earest 
Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and  sweet  — 
Thy  mother  Autumn,  for  whose  grave  thou  bearest 
Fresh  flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers,  with  gentle  feet, 
Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her  winding-sheet. 


"  "Virtue  and  Hope  and  Love,  like  light  and  Heaven, 
Surround  the  world.  —  We  are  their  chosen  slaves. 
Has  not  the  v^hirlwind  of  our  spirit  driven 
Truth's  deathless  germs  to  thought's  remotest  caves  ? 
Lo  !  Winter  comes  !  —  the  grief  of  many  graves, 
The  frost  of  death,  the  tempest  of  the  sword, 
The  flood  of  tyranny,  whose  sanguine  waves 
Stagnate  like  ice  at  Faith,  the  enchanter's  word, 
And  bind  all  human  hearts  in  its  repose  abhorred. 


"  The  seeds  are  sleeping  in  the  soil :  meanwhile 
The  tyrant  peoples  dungeons  w^ith  his  prey  ; 
Pale  victims  on  the  guarded  scaffold  smile 
Because  they  can  not  speak  ;  and,  day  by  day, 
The  moon  of  wasting  Science  wanes  away 
Among  her  stars,  and  in  that  darkness  vast 
The  sons  of  earth  to  their  foul  idols  pray, 
And  gray  priests  triumph,  and  like  blight  or  blast 
A  shade  of  selfish  care  o'er  human  looks  is  cast. 


"  This  is  the  winter  of  the  world  ;  and  here 

We  die,  even  as  the  winds  of  autumn  fade, 

Expiring  in  the  frore  and  foggy  air.  — 

Behold  !  Spring  comes,  tliongh  we  must  pass  \\  ho  mai 


134  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

The  promise  of  its  birth  —  even  as  the  shade 
W'hich  from  oar  death,  as  from  a  mountain,  flings 
The  future,  a  broad  sunrise  ;  thus  arrayed 
As  with  the  plumes  of  overshadowing  wings, 
From  its  dark  gulf  of  chains,  Earth  like  an  eagle  springs. 


"  O  dearest  love  !  we  shall  be  dead  and  cold 
Before  this  morn  niay  on  the  world  arise  ; 
Wouldst  thou  the  glory  of  its  dawn  behold  ? 
Alas  !  gaze  not  on  me,  but  turn  thine  eyes 
On  thine  own  heart  —  it  is  a  paradise 
Which  everlasting  spring  has  made  its  own, 
And  while  drear  winter  fills  the  naked  skies. 
Sweet  streams  of  sunny  thought  and  flowers  fresh  blown 
Are  there,  and  weave  their  sounds  and  odors  into  one. 


"  In  their  own  hearts  the  earnest  of  the  hope 
Which  made  them  great,  the  good  w^ill  ever  find  ; 
And  though  some  envious  shade  may  interlope 
Between  the  effect  and  it,  one  comes  behind, 
Who  aye  the  future  to  the  past  will  bind  — 
Necessity,  whose  sightless  strength  for  ever 
E  vil  with  evil,  good  with  good,  must  w^ind 
In  bands  of  union  which  no  power  may  sever : 
They  must  bring  forth  their  kind,  and  be  divided  never  ! 


"  The  good  and  mighty  of  departed  ages 
Are  in  their  graves,  the  innocent  and  free, 
Heroes,  and  poets,  and  prevailing  sages, 
Who  leave  the  vesture  of  their  majesty 
To  adorn  and  clothe  this  naked  world  ;'  and  we 
Are  like  to  them  —  such  perish,  but  they  leave 
All  hope  or  love  or  truth  or  liberty. 
Whose  forms  their  mighty  spirits  could  conceive 
To  be  a  rule  and  law  to  ages  that  survive. 


"  So  be  the  turf  heaped  over  our  remains 
Even  in  our  happy  youth,  and  that  strange  lot, 
Whate'er  it  be,  -when  in  these  mingling  veins 
The  blood  is  still,  be  ours  ;  let  sense  and  thought 
Pass  from  our  being,  or  be  numbered  not 
Among  the  things  that  are  ;  let  those  who  come 
Behind,  for  whom  our  steadfast  will  has  bought 
A  calm  inheritance,  a  glorious  doom, 
Insult  with  careless  tread  our  undivided  tomb. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  135 


"  Our  many  thoughts  and  deeds,  our  life  and  love, 
Our  happiness,  and  all  that  we  have  been. 
Immortally  must  live,  and  burn,  and  move, 
When  we  shall  be  no  more  ;  the  w^orld  has  seen 
A  type  of  peace  ;  and  as  some  most  serene 
And  lovely  spot  to  a  poor  maniac's  eye. 
After  long  years,  some  sweet  and  moving  scene 
Of  youthful  hope  returning  suddenly, 
Cluells  his  long  madness  —  thus  man  shall  remember  thee. 


"  And  Calumny  meanwhile  shall  feed  on  us. 
As  worms  devour  the  dead,  and  near  the  throne 
And  at  the  altar,  most  accepted  thus 
Shall  sneers  and  curses  be  ;  what  we  have  done 
None  shall  dare  vouch,  though  it  be  truly  known  ; 
That  record  shall  remain,  when  they  must  pass 
Who  built  their  pride  on  its  oblivion  ; 
And  fame,  in  human  hope  which  sculptured  was. 
Survive  the  perished  scrolls  of  unenduring  brass. 


"  The  while  we  two,  beloved,  must  depart. 
And  Sense  and  Reason,  those  enchanters  fair. 
Whose  w^and  of  power  is  hope,  would  bid  the  heart 
That  gazed  beyond  the  w^ormy  gi'ave  despair  : 
These  eyes,  these  lips,  this  blood,  seems  darkly  there 
To  fade  in  hideous  ruin  ;  no  calm  sleep 
Peopling  with  golden  dreams  the  stagnant  air, 
Seems  our  obscure  and  rotting  eyes  to  steep 
In  joy  ;  but  senseless  death  —  a  ruin  dark  and  deep  ! 


"  These  are  blind  fancies.     Reason  can  not  know 
What  sense  can  neither  feel  nor  thought  conceive  ; 
There  is  delusion  in  the  world  —  and  woe, 
And  fear,  and  pain  :  we  know  not  whence  we  live. 
Or  why,  or  how,  or  what  mute  power  may  give 
Their  being  to  each  plant  and  star  and  beast. 
Or  even  these  thoughts.  —  Come  near  me  !  I  do  weave 
A  chain  I  can  not  break  :  I  am  pos.sest 
With  thoughts  too  swift  and  strong  for  one  lone  human  breast. 


"  Yes,  yes  —  thy  ki.ss  is  sweet,  thy  lips  are  warm  — 
O  !  willingly,  beloved,  would  these  eye.s 
Might  they  no  more  drink  being  from  thy  form, 
Even  as  to  sleep  whence  we  again  arise. 


136  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Close  their  faint  orbs  in  death.     I  fear  nor  prize 
Aught  that  can  now  betide,  unshared  by  thee  — 
Yes,  love  when  wisdom  fails  makes  Cythna  wise  ; 
Darkness  and  death,  if  death  be  true,  must  be 
Dearer  than  life  and  hope  if  unenjoyed  with  tliee. 


"  Alas  !  our  thoughts  flow  on  \\'ith  stream,  -whose  waters 
Return  not  to  their  fountain  —  earth  and  heaven, 
The  ocean  and  the  sun,  the  clouds  their  daughters, 
Winter  and  spring,  and  morn  and  noon  and  even, 
All  that  we  are  or  know,  is  darkly  driven 
Toward  one  gulf.     Lo  !  what  a  change  is  come 
Since  I  first  spake  :  but  time  shall  be  forgiven, 
Though  it  change  all  but  thee  !"     She  ceased  —  night's  gloom 
Meanwhile  had  fallen  on  earth  from  the  sky's  sunless  dome. 


Though  she  had  ceased,  her  countenance,  uplifted 
To  heaven,  still  spake,  with  solemn  glory  bright ; 
Her  dark  deep  eyes,  her  lips,  whose  motions  gifted 
The  air  they  breathed  w^ith  love,  her  locks  undight ; 
"  Fair  star  of  life  and  love,"  I  cried,  "  ray  soul's  delight, 
Why  lookest  thou  on  the  crystalline  skies  ? 
O,  that  my  spirit  were  yon  heaven  of  night, 
Which  gazes  on  thee  with  its  thousand  eyes  !" 
She  turned  to  me  and  smiled  —  that  smile  was  paradise  ! 


CANTO  X. 


Was  there  a  human  spirit  in  the  steed, 
That  thus  with  his  proud  voice,  ere  night  was  gone, 
He  broke  our  linked  rest  ?  or  do  indeed 
All  living  things  a  common  nature  own. 
And  thought  erect  a  universal  throne. 
Where  many  shapes  one  tribute  ever  bear  ? 
And  Earth,  their  mutual  mother,  does  she  groan 
To  see  her  sons  contend  ?  and  makes  she  bare 
Her  breast,  that  all  in  peace  its  drainless  stores  may  share  ? 


I  have  heard  friendly  sounds  from  many  a  tongue 
Which  was  not  human  :  the  lone  nightingale 
Has  answered  me  with  her  most  soothing  song, 
Out  of  her  ivy  bower,  when  I  sate  pale 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  137 

With  grief,  and  sighed  beneath  ;  from  many  a  dale 
The  antelopes  who  flocked  for  food  have  spoken 
With  happy  sounds  and  motions,  that  avail 
Like  man's  ow^n  speech  :  and  such  was  now  the  token 
Of  waning  night,  whose  calm  by  that  proud  neigh  was  broken. 

111. 

Each  night  that  mighty  steed  bore  me  abroad, 
And  I  returned  w^ith  food  to  our  retreat, 
And  dark  intelligence  ;  the  blood  which  flowed 
Over  the  fields,  had  stained  the  courser's  feet : 
Soon  the  dust  drinks  that  bitter  dew  —  then  meet 
The  vulture  and  the  wild-dog  and  the  snake, 
The  wolf  and  the  hyena  gray,  and  eat 
The  dead  in  horrid  truce  :  their  throngs  did  make 
Behind  the  steed  a  chasm  like  waves  in  a  ship's  wake. 


For  from  the  utmost  realms  of  earth  came  pouring 
The  banded  slaves  whom  every  despot  sent 
At  that  throned  traitor's  summons  ;  like  the  roaring 
Of  fire,  whose  floods  the  wild  deer  circumvent 
In  the  scorched  pastures  of  the  South  :  so  bent 
The  armies  of  the  leagued  kings  around 
Their  files  of  steel  and  flame  ;  the  continent 
Trembled,  as  with  a  zone  of  ruin  bound  ; 
Beneath  their  feet  the  sea  shook  with  theii-  navies'  sound. 


From  every  nation  of  the  earth  they  came, 
The  multitude  of  moving  heartless  things 
"Whom  .slaves  call  men  :  obediently  they  came, 
Like  sheep  whom  from  the  fold  the  shepherd  brings 
To  the  stall,  red  with  blood  ;  their  many  kings 
Led  them,  thus  erring,  from  their  native  home  ; 
Tartar  and  Frank,  and  millions  whom  the  wings 
Of  Indian  breezes  lull,  and  many  a  band 
The  arctic  anarch  sent,  and  Idumea's  sand, 


Fertile  in  prodigies  and  lies  —  so  there 
Strange  natures  made  a  brotherhood  of  ill. 
The  desert  savage  ceased  to  grasp  in  fear 
His  Asian  shield  and  bow,  when,  at  the  will 
Of  Europe's  subtler  son,  the  bolt  would  kill 
Some  shepherd  sitting  on  a  rock  secure  ; 
But  .smiles  of  wondering  joy  his  face  would  fill. 
And  savage  sympathy  :  those  slaves  impure, 
Each  one  the  other  thus  from  ill  to  ill  did  lure. 


138  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


For  traitorously  did  that  foul  tyrant  robe 
His  countenance  in  lies  :  even  at  the  hour 
When  he  was  snatched  from  death,  then  o'er  the  globe, 
W^'ith  secret  signs  from  many  a  mountain  tower, 
With  smoke  by  day,  and  fire  by  night,  the  power 
Of  kings  and  prie.sts,  those  dark  conspirators, 
He  called  :  they  knew  his  cause  their  own,  and  swore 
Like  wolves  and  serpents  to  their  mutual  wars 
Strange  truce,  with  many  a  rite  which  Earth  and  Heaven  abhors. 


Myriads  had  come  —  millions  were  on  their  way ; 
The  tyrant  passed,  surrounded  by  the  steel 
Of  hired  assassins,  through  the  public  way. 
Choked  with  his  country's  dead  :  his  footsteps  reel 
On  the  fresh  blood  —  he  smiles.     "  Ay,  now  I  feel 
I  am  a  king  in  truth  !"  he  said,  and  took 
His  royal  seat,  and  bade  the  torturing  wheel 
Be  brought,  and  fire,  and  pincers,  and  the  hook, 
And  scorpions  —  that  his  soul  on  its  revenge  might  look. 


"  But  first,  go  slay  the  rebels  !     Why  return 
The  victor  bands  ?"  he  said  :  '•  millions  yet  live, 
Of  whom  the  weakest  with  one  word  might  turn 
The  scales  of  victory  yet ;  let  none  survive 
But  those  within  the  walls  —  each  fifth  shall  give 
The  expiation  for  his  brethren  here. 
Go  forth,  and  waste  and  kill !"  — ''  O  king,  forgive 
My  speech,"  a  soldier  answered  ;  "  but  we  fear 
The  spirits  of  the  night,  and  morn  is  drawing  near ; 


"  For  we  were  slaying  still  without  remorse, 
And  now  that  dreadful  chief  beneath  my  hand 
Defenceless  lay,  when  on  a  hell  black  horse, 
An  angel  bright  as  day,  waving  a  brand 

Which  flashed  among  the  stars,  passed."  —  "  Dost  thou  stand 
Parleying  with  me,  thou  wretch  ?"  the  king  replied  ; 
"  Slaves  !  bind  him  to  the  wheel ;  and  of  this  band. 
Whoso  will  drag  that  woman  to  his  side 
That  scai-ed  him  thus,  may  burn  his  dearest  foe  beside : 


"  And  gold  and  glory  shall  be  his.     Go  forth  !" 
They  rushed  into  the  plain.     Loud  was  the  roar 
Of  dieir  career  :  the  horsemen  shook  the  earth  ; 
The  wheeled  artillery's  speed  the  pavement  tore 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  139 

The  infantry,  file  after  file,  did  pour 
Their  clouds  on  the  utmost  hills.     Five  days  they  slew 
Among  the  wasted  fields  :  the  sixth  saw  gore 
Stream  thi-ough  the  city ;  on  the  seventh,  the  dew 
Of  slaughter  became  stiff ;  and  there  was  peace  anew  : 


Peace  in  the  desert  fields  and  villages, 
Between  the  glutted  beasts  and  mangled  dead 
Peace  in  the  silent  streets  !  save  when  the  cries 
Of  victims,  to  their  fiery  judgement  led, 
Made  pale  their  voiceless  lips,  who  seemed  to  dread 
Even  in  their  dearest  kindred,  lest  some  tongue 
Be  faithless  to  the  fear  yet  unbetrayed  ; 
Peace  in  the  tyrant's  palace,  v^'here  the  throng 
Waste  the  triumphal  hours  in  festival  and  song ! 


Day  after  day  the  burning  sun  rolled  on 
Over  the  death-polluted  land;  it  came 
Out  of  the  east  like  fire,  and  fiercely  shone 
A  lamp  of  autumn,  ripening  with  its  flame 
The  few  lone  ears  of  corn  ;  the  sky  became 
Stagnate  with  heat,  so  that  each  cloud  and  blast 
Languished  and  died  ;  the  thirsting  air  did  claim 
All  moisture,  and  a  rotting  vapor  past 
From  the  unburied  dead,  invisible  and  fast. 


First  w^ant,  then  plague,  came  on  the  beasts  ;  their  food 
Failed,  and  they  drew  the  breath  of  its  decay. 
Millions  on  millions,  whom  the  scent  of  blood 
Had  lured,  or  who,  from  regions  far  away, 
Had  tracked  the  hosts  in  festival  array. 
From  their  dark  deserts  —  gaunt  and  wasting  now, 
Stalked  like  fell  shades  among  their  perished  prey ; 
In  their  green  eyes  a  strange  disease  did  glow, 
They  sank  in  hideous  spasm,  or  pains  severe  and  slow. 


The  fish  were  poisoned  in  the  streams  ;  the  birds 
In  the  green  woods  peri.shed  ;  the  insect  race 
Was  withered  up  ;  the  scattered  flocks  and  herds 
Who  had  survived  the  wild  beasts'  hungry  chase, 
Died  moaning,  each  upon  the  other's  face 
In  helpless  agony  gazing ;  round  the  city 
All  night  the  lean  hyenas  their  sad  case 
Like  starving  infants  wailed  —  a  woeful  ditty! 
And  many  a  mother  wept,  pierced  with  unnatural  pity. 


140  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Amid  the  aerial  minarets  on  high, 
The  Ethiopian  vultures  fluttering  fell 
From  their  long  line  of  brethren  in  the  sky, 
Startling  the  concourse  of  mankind. —  Too  well 
These  signs  the  coming  mischief  did  foretell : 
Strange  panic  first,  a  deep  and  sickening  dread 
Within  each  heart,  like  ice,  did  sink  and  dwell, 
A  voiceless  thought  of  evil,  which  did  spread 
With  the  quick  glance  of  eyes,  like  withering  lightnings  shed. 


Day  after  day,  when  the  year  wanes,  the  frosts 
Strip  its  green  crown  of  leaves,  till  all  is  bare  ; 
So  on  those  strange  and  congregated  hosts 
Came  Famine,  a  swift  shadow,  and  the  air 
Groaned  with  the  burden  of  a  new  despair  : 
Famine,  than  whom  Misrule  no  deadher  daughter 
Feeds  from  her  thousand  breasts,  though  sleeping  there 
With  lidless  eyes,  lie  Faith  and  Plague  and  Slaughter, 
A  ghastly  brood  —  conceived  of  Lethe's  sullen  water. 


There  was  no  food  ;  the  corn  was  trampled  down, 
The  flocks  and  herds  had  perished  ;  on  the  shore 
The  dead  and  putrid  fish  were  ever  thrown : 
The  deeps  were  foodless,  and  the  winds  no  more 
Creaked  with  the  weight  of  birds,  but,  as  before 
Those  winged  things  sprang  forth,  were  void  of  shade 
The  vines  and  orchards,  autumn's  golden  store, 
Were  burnt :  so  that  the  meanest  food  was  weighed 
With  gold,  and  Avarice  died  before  the  god  it  made. 


There  was  no  corn  :  in  the  wide  market-place 
All  loathliest  things,  even  human  flesh,  was  sold  ; 
They  weighed  it  in  small  scales  —  and  many  a  face 
Was  fixed  in  eager  horror  then  :  his  gold 
The  miser  brought ;  the  tender  maid,  grown  bold 
Through  hunger,  bared  her  scorned  charms  in  vain  ; 
The  mother  brought  her  eldest  born,  controlled 
By  instinct  blind  as  love,  but  turned  again 
And  bade  her  infant  suck,  and  died  in  silent  pain. 


Then  fell  blue  Plague  upon  the  race  of  man. 

"  O,  for  the  sheathed  steel,  so  late  which  gave 

Oblivion  to  the  dead,  when  the  streets  ran 

With  brothers'  blood  !  O  that  the  earthquake's  grave 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  141 

"Would  gape,  or  ocean  lift  its  stifling  wave  !" 
Vain  cries  !  throughout  the  streets,  thousands  pursued 
Each  by  his  fieiy  torture,  liowl  and  rave, 
Or  sit,  in  phrensy's  unimagined  mood. 
Upon  fresh  heaps  of  dead  —  a  ghastly  multitude  ! 


It  was  not  hunger  now,  but  thirst.     Each  weU 
Was  choked  with  rotting  corpses,  and  became 
A  caldron  of  green  mist  made  visible 
At  sunrise.     Thither  still  the  myriads  came, 
Seeking  to  quench  the  agony  of  the  flame 
Which  raged  like  poison  through  their  bursting  veins  ; 
Naked  they  were  from  torture,  without  shame, 
Spotted  with  nameless  scars  and  lurid  blains, 
Childhood  and  youth  and  age,  writhing  in  savage  pains. 


It  was  not  thirst  but  madness  !    Many  savv^ 
Their  own  lean  image  everywhere  ;  it  went 
A  ghastlier  self  beside  them,  till  the  awe 
Of  that  dread  sight  to  self-destruction  sent 
Those  shrieking  victims  ;  some,  ere  life  was  spent. 
Sought,  with  a  horrid  sympathy,  to  shed 
Contagion  on  the  sound  ;  and  others  rent 
Their  matted  hair,  and  cried  aloud,  "  We  tread 
On  fire  !  the  avenging  Power  his  hell  on  earth  has  spread  !' 


Sometimes  the  living  by  the  dead  were  hid. 
Near  the  great  fountain  in  the  public  square, 
Where  corpses  made  a  crumbling  pyramid 
Under  the  sun,  v^'as  heard  one  stifled  prayer 
For  life,  in  the  hot  silence  of  the  air  ; 
And  strange  'twas,  'mid  that  hideous  heap  to  see 
Some  shrouded  in  their  long  and  golden  hair, 
As  if  not  dead,  but  slumbering  quietly, 
Like  forms  which  sculptors  carve,  then  love  to  agony. 


Famine  had  spared  the  palace  of  the  king  : 
He  rioted  in  festival  the  while. 

He  and  his  guards  and  priests ;  but  Plague  did  fling 
One  shadow  upon  all.     Famine  can  smile 
On  him  who  brings  it  food,  and  pass,  with  guile 
Of  thankful  falsehood,  like  a  courtier  gray. 
The  house-dog  of  the  throne  ;  but  many  a  mile 
Comes  Plague,  a  winged  wolf,  who  loathes  alway 
The  garbage  and  the  scum  that  strangers  make  her  prey. 


142  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


So,  near  the  throne,  amid  the  gorgeous  feast. 
Sheathed  in  resplendent  arms,  or  loosely  dight 
To  luxury,  ere  the  mockery  yet  had  ceased 
That  lingered  on  his  Hps,  the  warrior's  might 
Was  loosened,  and  a  new  and  ghastlier  night 
In  dreams  of  phrensy  lapped  his  eyes  ;  he  fell 
Headlong,  or  with  stiff  eyeballs  sate  upright 
Among  the  guests,  or  raving  mad,  did  tell 
Strange  truths  —  a  dying  seer  of  dark  oppression's  hell. 


The  princes  and  the  priests  were  pale  with  terror ; 
That  monstrous  faith  wherewith  they  ruled  mankind 
Fell,  like  a  shaft  loosed  by  the  bowman's  error, 
On  their  own  hearts  :  they  sought  and  they  could  find 
No  refuge  —  'twas  the  blind  who  led  the  blind  ! 
So,  through  the  desolate  streets  to  the  high  fane. 
The  many-tongued  and  endless  armies  wind 
In  sad  procession  ;  each  among  the  train 
To  his  own  Idol  lifts  his  supplications  vain. 


"  O  God  !"  they  cried,  "we  know  our  secret  pride 
Has  scorned  thee  and  thy  worship  and  thy  name  ; 
Secure  in  human  power,  we  have  defied 
Thy  fearful  might ;  we  bend  in  fear  and  shame 
Before  thy  presence  ;  with  the  dust  we  claim 
Kindred.     Be  merciful,  O  King  of  heaven  ! 
Most  justly  have  we  suffered  for  thy  fame 
Made  dim,  but  be  at  length  our  sins  forgiven. 
Ere  to  despair  and  death  thy  worshipers  be  driven. 


"  O  King  of  Glory  !  thou  alone  hast  power  ! 
Who  can  resist  thy  will  ?  who  can  restrain 
Thy  w^rath,  when  on  the  guilty  thou  dost  shower 
The  shafts  of  thy  revenge  —  a  blistering  rain  ? 
Greatest  and  best,  be  merciful  again  ! 
Have  we  not  stabbed  thine  enemies,  and  made 
The  earth  an  altar,  and  the  heavens  a  fane, 
Where  thou  wert  worshiped  with  their  blood,  and  laid 
Those  hearts  in  dust  which  would  thy  searchless  works  have 
weighed  ? 

XXIX, 

"  Well  didst  thou  loosen  on  this  impious  city 
Thine  angels  of  revenge  :  recall  them  now  ; 
Thy  worshipers  abased,  here  kneel  for  pity, 
And  bind  their  souls  by  an  immortal  vow  : 


I 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  143 

We  swear  by  thee  !    And  to  our  oath  do  thou 
Give  sanction,  from  thine  hell  of  fiends  and  flame, 
That  we  will  kill  with  fire  and  torments  slow 
The  last  of  those  who  mocked  thy  holy  name. 
And  scorned  the  sacred  laws  thy  prophets  did  proclaim." 


Thus  they  with  trembling  hmba  and  pallid  lips 
Worshiped  their  own  hearts'  image,  dim  and  vast, 
Scared  by  the  shade  wherewith  they  would  eclipse 
The  light  of  other  minds  ;  troubled  they  past 
From  the  gi-eat  temple.     Fiercely  still  and  fast 
The  arrows  of  the  plague  among  them  fell, 
And  they  on  one  another  gazed  aghast. 
And  through  the  hosts  contention  wild  befell, 
As  each  of  his  own  god  the  w^ondrous  works  did  tell : 

XXXI. 

And  Oromaze,  Joshua  and  Mahomet, 
Moses  and  Buddh,  Zerdusht  and  Brahm  and  Fob, 
A  tumult  of  strange  names,  w^hich  never  met 
Before,  as  w^atchwords  of  a  single  woe 
Arose.     Each  raging  votary  'gan  to  throw 
Aloft  his  armed  hands,  and  each  did  howl, 
"  Our  God  alone  is  God  !"  —  and  slaughter  now 
Would  have  gone  forth,  when,  from  beneath  a  cowl, 
A  voice  came  forth,  which  pierced  like  ice  through  every  soul. 

xxxii. 

'Twas  an  Iberian  priest  from  whom  it  came, 
A  zealous  man,  who  led  the  legioned  West 
With  words  which  faith  and  pride  had  steeped  in  flame, 
To  quell  the  unbelievers :  a  dire  guest 
Even  to  his  friends  was  he,  for  in  his  breast 
Did  hate  and  guile  lie  watchful,  intertwined. 
Twin  serpents  in  one  deep  and  winding  nest ; 
He  loathed  all  faith  beside  his  own,  and  pined 
To  wreak  his  fear  of  Heaven  in  vengeance  on  mankind. 


But  more  he  loathed  and  hated  the  clear  light 
Of  wisdom  and  free  thought,  and  more  did  fear. 
Lest,  kindled  once,  its  beams  might  pierce  the  night, 
Even  where  his  idol  stood  :  for,  far  and  near 
Did  many  a  heart  in  Europe  leap  to  hear 
That  faith  and  tyranny  were  trampled  down  ; 
Many  a  pale  victim,  doomed  for  truth  to  share 
The  murderer's  cell,  or  see,  with  helple.s8  groan, 
The  priests  his  children  drag  for  slaves  to  serve  their  own. 


144  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


He  dared  not  kill  the  infidels  with  fire 
Or  steel,  in  Europe  :  the  slow  agonies 
Of  legal  torture  mocked  his  keen  desire 
So  he  made  truce  with  those  who  did  despise 
The  expiation  and  the  sacrifice, 
That,  though  detested,  Islam's  kindred  creed 
Might  crush  for  him  those  deadlier  enemies  ; 
For  fear  of  God  did  in  his  bosom  breed 
A  jealous  hate  of  man,  an  unreposing  need. 

XXXV. 

"  Peace  !  peace  !"  he  cried,     "  When  we  are  dead,  the  day 
Of  judgement  comes,  and  all  shall  surely  know 
Whose  God  is  God  —  each  fearfully  shall  pay 
The  errors  of  his  faith  in  endless  woe  ! 
But  there  is  sent  a  mortal  vengeance  now 
On  earth,  because  an  impious  race  had  spurned 
Him  whom  we  all  adore  —  a  subtil  foe. 
By  whom  for  ye  this  dread  reward  was  earned, 
And  kingly  thrones,  which  rest  on  faith,  nigh  overturned. 


"  Think  ye,  because  we  weep  and  kneel  and  pray, 
That  God  will  lull  the  pestilence  ?     It  rose 
Even  from  beneath  his  throne,  where  many  a  day 
His  mercy  soothed  it  to  a  dark  repose  : 
It  walks  upon  the  earth  to  judge  his  foes, 
And  what  are  thou  and  I,  that  he  should  deign 
To  curb  his  ghastly  minister,  or  close 
The  gates  of  death,  ere  they  receive  the  twain 
Who  shook  with  mortal  spells  his  undefended  reign  ? 


"  Ay,  there  is  famine  in  the  gulf  of  hell, 
Its  giant  worms  of  fire  for  ever  yawn  — 
Their  lurid  eyes  are  on  us  !    Those  who  fell 
By  the  swift  shafts  of  pestilence  ere  dawn, 
Are  in  their  jaws  !     They  hunger  for  the  spawn 
Of  Satan,  their  own  brethren,  who  were  sent 
To  make  our  souls  their  spoil.     See  !  see  !  they  fawn 
Like  dogs,  and  they  will  sleep  with  luxury  spent, 
When  those  detested  hearts  their  iron  fangs  have  rent ! 


"  Our  God  may  then  lull  Pestilence  to  sleep  : 
Pile  high  the  pyre  of  expiation  now  ! 
A  forest's  spoil  of  boughs,  and  on  the  heap 
Pour  venomous  gums,  which  sullenly  and  slow, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  145 

When  touched  by  flame  shall  burn  and  melt,  and  flow, 
A  stream  of  clinging  fire,  and  fix  on  high 
A  net  of  iron,  and  spread  forth  below 
A  couch  of  snakes  and  scorpions,  and  the  fry 
Of  centipedes  and  worms,  earth's  hellish  progeny  ! 


"Let  Laon  and  Laone  on  that  pyre. 
Linked  tight  with  burning  brass,  perish  !  then  pray 
That,  with  this  sacrifice,  the  withering  ire 
Of  Heaven  may  be  appeased."     He  ceased,  and  they 
A  space  stood  silent,  as  far,  far  away 
The  echoes  of  his  voice  among  them  died  ; 
And  he  knelt  dow^n  upon  the  dust,  alway 
Muttering  the  curses  of  his  speechless  pride, 
While  shame  and  fear  and  awe  the  armies  did  divide. 


His  voice  was  like  a  blast  that  burst  the  portal 
Of  fabled  hell ;  and  as  he  spake,  each  one 
Saw  gape  beneath  the  chasms  of  fire  immortal. 
And  heaven  above  seemed  cloven,  where,  on  a  throne 
Girt  round  with  storms  and  shadow^s,  sate  alone 
Their  King  and  Judge.     Fear  killed  in  every  breast 
All  natural  pity  then,  a  fear  unknown 
Before,  and  with  an  inward  fire  possest, 
They  raged  like  homeless  beasts  whom  burning  woods  invest. 


Twas  mom.     At  noon  the  public  crier  went  forth, 
Proclaiming  through  the  living  and  the  dead, 
"  The  monarch  saith  that  his  great  empire's  worth 
Is  set  on  Laon  and  Laone's  head : 
He  w^ho  but  one  yet  living  here  can  lead. 
Or  who  the  life  from  both  their  hearts  can  wring, 
Shall  be  the  kingdom's  heir,  a  glorious  meed ! 
But  he  who  both  alive  can  hither  bring, 
The  princess  shall  espouse,  and  reign  an  equal  king." 


Ere  night  the  pyre  was  piled,  the  net  of  iron 
Was  spread  above,  the  fearful  couch  below  ; 
It  overtopped  the  towers  that  did  environ 
That  spacious  square  ;  for  Fear  is  never  slow 
To  build  the  thrones  of  Hate,  her  mate  and  foe, 
So,  she  scourged  forth  the  maniac  multitude 
To  rear  this  pyramid  —  tottering  and  slow, 
Plague-stricken,  foodless,  like  lean  herds  pursued 
By  gad-flies,  they  have  piled  the  heath,  and  gums,  and  wood. 
10 


146  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Night  came,  a  starless  and  a  moonless  gloom. 
Until  the  dawn,  those  hosts  of  many  a  nation 
Stood  round  that  pile,  as  near  one  lover's  tomb 
Two  gentle  sisters  mourn  their  desolation  ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  that  expectation 
Was  heard  on  high  the  reptile's  hiss  and  crawl — 
It  was  so  deep,  save  w^hen  the  devastation 
Of  the  swift  pest  with  fearful  interval, 
Mai-king  its  path  with  shrieks,  among  the  crowd  would  falL 

X  n  V. 

Mom  came.     Among  those  sleepless  multitudes. 
Madness  and  Fear  and  Plague  and  Famine  still 
Heaped  corpse  on  corpse,  as  in  autumnal  woods 
The  frosts  of  many  a  wind  with  dead  leaves  fill 
Earth's  cold  and  sullen  brooks.     In  silence  still 
The  pale  survivors  stood  ;  ere  noon,  the  fear 
Of  Hell  became  a  panic,  -which  did  kill 
Like  hunger  or  disease,  with  whispers  drear, 
As  "  Hush  !  hark  !     Come  they  yet  ?     Just  Heaven  !  thine  hour  is 


And  priests  rushed  through  their  ranks,  some  counterfeiting 
The  rage  they  did  inspire,  some  mad  indeed 
With  their  own  lies.  'They  said  their  god  was  waiting 
To  see  his  enemies  writhe  and  burn  and  bleed. 
And  that,  till  then,  the  snakes  of  Hell  had  need 
Of  human  souls.     Three  hundred  furnaces 
Soon  blazed  through  the  wide  City,  w^here,  with  speed, 
Men  brought  their  infidel  kindred  to  appease 
God's  wrath,  and  while  they  burned,  knelt  round  on  quivering 
knees 


The  noontide  sun  was  darkened  with  that  smoke, 
The  winds  of  eve  dispersed  those  ashes  gray. 
The  madness  which  these  rites  had  lulled  awoke 
Again  at  sunset.     Who  .shall  dare  to  say 
The  deeds  which  night  and  fear  brought  forth,  or  weigh 
In  balance  just  the  good  and  evil  there  ? 
He  might  man's  deep  and  searchless  heart  display. 
And  cast  a  light  on  those  dim  labyrinths,  where 
Hope,  near  imagined  chasms,  is  struggling  with  despair. 


'Tis  said  a  mother  dragged  three  children  then 
To  those  fierce  fiames  which  roast  the  eyes  in  the  head, 
And  laughed  and  died  ;  and  that  unholy  men, 
Feasting  like  fiends  upon  the  infidel  dead, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  147 

Looked  from  their  meal  and  saw  an  angel  tread 
The  visible  floor  of  heaven,  and  it  was  she  ! 
And,  on  that  night,  one  without  doubt  or  dread 
Came  to  the  fire,  and  said,  "  Stop,  I  am  he  ! 
Kill  me  !"     They  burned  them  both  with  hellish  mockery. 


And,  one  by  one,  that  night,  young  maidens  came, 
Beauteous  and  calm,  like  shapes  of  living  stone 
Clothed  in  the  light  of  dreams,  and  by  the  flame 
Which  shrank  as  overgorged,  they  laid  them  down, 
And  sung  a  low  sweet  song,  of  which  alone 
One  word  was  heard,  and  that  was  Liberty  ; 
And  that  some  kissed  their  marble  feet,  with  moan 
Like  love,  and  died,  and  then  that  they  did  die 
With  happy  smiles,  which  sunk  in  white  tranquillity. 


CANTO  XI. 


She  saw  me  not  —  She  heard  me  not  —  alone 
Upon  the  mountain's  dizzy  brink  she  stood  ; 
She  spake  not,  breathed  not,  moved  not  —  there  was  throw^n 
Over  her  look  the  shadow^  of  a  mood 
Which  only  clothes  the  heart  in  solitude, 
A  thought  of  voiceless  depth.     She  stood  alone. 
Above,  the  Heavens  were  spread  ;  below,  the  flood 
Was  murmuring  in  its  caves  ;  the  wind  had  blown 
Her  hair  apart,  thro'  w^hich  her  eyes  and  forehead  shone. 


A  cloud  was  hanging  o'er  the  western  mountains  ; 
Before  its  blue  and  moveless  depth  were  flying 
Gray  mists   poured  forth  from  the  unresting  fountains 
Of  Darkness  in  the  North  :  the  day  was  dying  : 
Sudden,  the  sun  shone  forth  ;  its  beams  were  lying 
Like  boiling  gold  on  Ocean,  strange  to  see, 
And  on  the  shattered  vapors,  which,  defying 
The  power  of  light  in  vain,  tossed  restlessly 
In  the  red  heaven,  like  wrecks  in  a  tempestuous  sea. 


It  was  a  stream  of  living  beams,  who.se  bank 
On  either  side  by  the  cloud's  cleft  was  made ; 
And  where  its  chasms  that  flood  of  glory  drank. 
Its  waves  gushed  forth  like  fire,  and  as  if  swayed 


148  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

By  some  mute  tempest  rolled  on  her.     The  shade 
Of  her  bright  image  floated  on  the  river 
Of  liquid  light,  which  then  did  end  and  fade  — 
Her  radiant  shape  upon  its  verge  did  shiver  ; 
Aloft,  her  flowing  hair  like  str-ings  of  flame  did  quiver. 


I  stood  beside  her,  but  she  saw  me  not — 
She  looked  upon  the  sea  and  skies  and  earth. 
Rapture  and  love  and  admiration  wrought 
A  passion  deeper  far  than  tears  or  mirth 
Or  speech  or  gesture,  or  whate'er  has  birth 
From  common  joy  ;  which,  with  the  speechless  feeling 
That  led  her  there,  united,  and  shot  forth 
From  her  far  eyes  a  light  of  deep  revealing, 
All  but  her  dearest  self  from  my  regard  concealing. 


Her  lips  were  parted,  and  the  measured  breath 
Was  now  heard  there  ;  her  dark  and  intricate  eyes 
Orb  within  orb,  deeper  than  sleep  or  death, 
Absorbed  the  glories  of  the  burning  skies, 
Which,  mingling  with  her  heart's  deep  ecstasies, 
Burst  from  her  looks  and  gestures  ;  and  a  light 
Of  liquid  tenderness,  like  love,  did  rise 
From  her  w^hole  frame,  an  atmosphere  which  quite 
Arrayed  her  in  its  beams,  tremulous  and  soft  and  bright. 


She  would  have  clasped  me  to  her  glowing  frame  ; 
Those  warm  and  odorous  lips  might  soon  have  shed 
On  mine  the  fragrance  and  the  invisible  flame 
W^hich  now  the  cold  winds  stole  ;  she  would  have  laid 
Upon  my  languid  heart  her  dearest  head  ; 
I  might  have  heard  her  voice,  tender  and  sweet ; 
Her  eyes  mingling  with  mine  might  soon  have  fed 
My  soul  with  their  own  joy.     One  moment  yet 
gazed  —  we  parted  then,  never  again  to  meet ! 


Never  but  once  to  meet  on  earth  again  ! 
She  heard  me  as  I  fled  —  her  eager  tone 
Sank  on  my  heart,  and  almost  wove  a  chain 
Around  my  w^ill  to  link  it  with  her  own. 
So  that  my  stern  resolve  was  almost  gone. 
"  I  can  not  reach  thee  !  whither  dost  thou  fly  ? 
My  steps  are  faint.     Come  back,  thou  dearest  one  — 
Return,  ah  me  !  return  !"     The  wind  passed  by 
On  which  those  accents  died,  faint,  far  and  lingeringly. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  149 


Woe  !  woe  !  that  moonless  midnight.    Want  and  Pest 
Were  horrible,  but  one  more  fell  doth  rear, 
As  in  a  hydra's  swarming  lair,  its  crest 
Eminent  among  those  victims  —  even  the  Fear 
Of  Hell :  each  girt  by  the  hot  atmosphere 
Of  his  blind  agony,  like  a  scorpion  stung 
By  his  own  rage  upon  his  burning  bier 
Of  circling  coals  of  lire  ;  but  still  there  clung 
One  hope,  like  a  keen  sword  on  starting  threads  uphung  : 


Not  death  —  death  w^as  no  more  refuge  or  rest ; 
Not  life  —  it  was  despair  to  be  !  —  not  sleep, 
For  fiends  and  chasms  of  fire  had  dispossessed 
All  natural  dreams :  to  wake  was  not  to  w^eep, 
But  to  gaze  mad  and  pallid,  at  the  leap 
To  which  the  Future,  like  a  snaky  scourge, 
Or  like  some  tyrant's  eye,  which  eye  doth  keep 
Its  withering  beam  upon  his  slaves,  did  urge 
Their  steps :  —  they  heard  the  roar  of  Hell's  sulphureous  surge. 


Each  of  that  multitude  alone,  and  lost 
To  sense  of  outw^ard  things,  one  hope  yet  knew  ; 
As  on  a  foam-girt  crag  some  seaman  tost. 
Stares  at  the  rising  tide,  or  like  the  crew 
While  now  the  ship  is  splitting  through  and  through ; 
Each,  if  the  tramp  of  a  far  steed  was  heard, 
Started  from  sick  despair,  or  if  there  flew 
One  murmur  on  the  wind,  or  if  some  word 
Which  none  can  gather  yet,  the  distant  crowd  has  stirred. 


Why  became  cheeks,  wan  with  the  kiss  of  death, 
Paler  from  hope  ?  they  had  sustained  despair. 
Why  watched  those  myriads  with  suspended  breath 
Sleepless  a  second  night  ?  they  are  not  here 
The  victims,  and  hour  by  hour,  a  vision  drear, 
Warm  corpses  fall  upon  the  clay-cold  dead  ; 
And  even  in  death  their  lips  are  writhed  with  fear. 
The  crowd  is  mute  and  moveless  —  overhead 
Silent  Arcturus  shines  —  Ha  !  hear'st  thou  not  the  tread 


Of  rushing  feet  1  laughter  ?  the  shout,  the  scream, 
Of  triumph  not  to  be  contained  ?     See  !  hark ! 
They  come,  they  come  !  give  way  !     Alas,  ye  deem 
Falsely  —  'tis  but  a  crowd  of  maniacs  stark 


150  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Driven,  like  a  troop  of  spectres,  through  the  dark 
From  the  choked  well,  whence  a  bright  death-fire  sprung, 
T'  lurid  earth-star,  which  dropped  many  a  spark 
From  its  blue  train,  and  spreading  widely,  clung 
To  their  wild  hair,  like  mist  the  topmost  pines  among. 


And  many,  from  the  cloud  collected  there. 
Joined  that  strange  dance  in  fearful  sympathies  ; 
There  was  the  silence  of  a  long  despair, 
When  the  last  echo  of  those  terrible  cries 
Came  from  a  distant  street,  like  agonies 
Stifled  afar.     Before  the  tyrant's  throne 
All  night  his  aged  senate  sate,  their  eyes 
In  stony  expectation  fixed  ;  when  one 
Sudden  before  them  stood,  a  stranger  and  alone. 


Dark  priests  and  haughty  warriors  gazed  on  him 
With  baffled  wonder,  for  a  hermit's  vest 
Concealed  his  face  ;  but  when  he  spake,  his  tone, 
Ere  yet  the  matter  did  their  thoughts  arrest, 
Earnest,  benignant,  calm,  as  from  a  breast 
Void  of  all  hate  or  terror,  made  them  start ; 
For  as  with  gentle  accents  he  addressed 
His  speech  to  them,  on  each  unwilling  heart 
Unusual  awe  did  fall  ^  a  spirit-queUing  dart. 


"  Ye  princes  of  the  earth,  ye  sit  aghast 
Amid  the  ruin  which  yourselves  have  made  ; 
Yes,  desolation  heard  your  trumpet's  blast, 
And  sprang  from  sleep  !     dark  Teri-or  has  obeyed 
Your  bidding —  Oh  that  1,  whom  ye  have  made 
Your  foe,  could  set  my  dearest  enemy  free 
From  pain  and  fear !  but  evil  casts  a  shade 
Which  can  not  pass  so  soon,  and  Hate  must  be 
The  nurse  and  parent  still  of  an  ill  progeny. 


"  Ye  turn  to  Heaven  for  aid  in  your  distress  ; 
Alas,  that  ye,  the  mighty  and  the  wise. 
Who,  if  he  dared,  might  not  aspire  to  less 
Than  ye  conceive  of  power,  should  fear  the  lies 
W^hich  thou,  and  thou,  didst  frame  for  inysteries 
To  blind  your  slaves  :  consider  your  own  thought. 
An  empty  and  a  cruel  sacrifice 
Ye  now  prepare,  for  a  vain  idol  wrought 
Out  of  the  fears  and  hate  which  vain  desires  have  brought. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  151 


"  Ye  seek  for  happiness  —  alas  the  day  ! 
Ye  find  it  not  in  luxuiy  nor  in  gold, 
Nor  in  the  fame  nor  in  the  envied  sw^ay 
For  which,  O  willing  slaves  to  Custom  old, 
Severe  task-mistress  !  ye  your  hearts  have  sold. 
Ye  seek  for  peace,  and  when  ye  die,  to  dream 
No  evil  dreams  :  all  mortal  things  are  cold 
And  senseless  then.     If  aught  survive,  I  deem 
It  must  be  love  and  joy,  for  they  immortal  seem. 


"  Fear  not  the  future,  weep  not  for  the  past. 
Oh.  could  I  win  your  ears  to  dare  be  now 
Glorious  and  great  and  calm  !  that  ye  would  cast 
Into  the  dust  those  symbols  of  your  woe, 
Purple  and  gold  and  steel !  that  ye  would  go 
Proclaiming  to  the  nations  whence  ye  came, 
That  want  and  plague  and  fear  from  slavery  flow  ; 
And  that  mankind  is  free,  and  that  the  shame 
Of  royalty  and  faith  is  lost  in  freedom's  fame. 


"  If  thus,  'tis  well  —  if  not,  I  come  to  say 
That  Laon — ".     While  the  stranger  spoke,  among 
The  council  sudden  tumult  and  affray 
Arose,  for  many  of  those  w^arriors  young 
Had  on  his  eloquent  accents  fed  and  hung 
Like  bees  on  mountain-flowers  ;  they  knew  the  truth. 
And  from  their  thrones  in  vindication  sprung  ; 
The  men  of  faith  and  law  then  without  ruth 
Drew  forth  their  secret  steel,  and  stabbed  each  ardent  youth. 


They  stabbed  them  in  the  back  and  sneered.     A  slave 
Who  stood  behind  the  throne  those  corpses  drew 
Each  to  its  bloody,  dark  and  secret  grave  ; 
And  one  more  daring  raised  his  steel  anew^ 
To  pierce  the  stranger  :  "  What  hast  thou  to  do 
With  me,  poor  wretch  ?"  —  Calm,  solemn  and  severe, 
That  voice  unstrung  his  sinews,  and  he  threw 
His  dagger  on  the  ground,  and  pale  with  fear. 
Sate  silently  —  his  voice  then  did  the  stranger  rear  : 


"  It  doth  avail  not  that  I  weep  for  ye  — 
Ye  can  not  change,  since  ye  are  old  and  gray. 
And  ye  have  chosen  your  lot  —  your  fame  must  be 
A  book  of  blood,  whence  in  a  milder  day 


l'^2  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 

Men  shall  learn  truth,  when  ye  are  wrapped  in  clay : 
Now  ye  shall  triumph.     I  am  Laon's  friend, 
And  him  to  your  revenge  will  I  betray, 
So  ye  concede  one  easy  boon.     Attend  ! 
For  now  I  speak  of  things  which  ye  can  apprehend. 


"  There  is  a  people  mighty  in  its  youth, 
A  land  beyond  the  oceans  of  the  West, 
Where,  though  with  rudest  rites.  Freedom  and  Truth 
Are  worshiped  ;  from  a  glorious  mother's  breast 
Who,  since  high  Athens  fell,  among  the  best 
Sate  Hke  the  queen  of  nations,  but  in  woe, 
By  inbred  monsters  outraged  and  oppressed. 
Turns  to  her  chainless  child  for  succor  now. 
And  draws  the  milk  of  power  in  wisdom's  fullest  flow. 


"  This  land  is  like  an  eagle,  whose  young  gaze 
Feeds  on  the  noontide  beam,  whose  golden  plume 
Floats  moveless  on  the  storm,  and  in  the  blaze 
Of  sunrise  gleams  when  earth  is  wrapped  in  gloom  ; 
An  epitaph  of  glory  for  the  tomb 
Of  murdered  Europe  may  thy  fame  be  made. 
Great  people  !    As  the  sands  shalt  thou  become  ; 
Thy  growth  is  swift  as  morn,  when  night  mu.st  fade  : 
The  multitudinous  earth  shall  sleep  beneath  thy  shade. 


"  Yes,  in  the  desert  there  is  built  a  home 
For  Freedom.     Genius  is  made  strong  to  rear 
The  monuments  of  man  beneath  the  dome 
Of  a  new  heaven  ;  myriads  assemble  there 
Whom  the  proud  lords  of  man,  in  rage  or  fear, 
Drive  from  their  wasted  homes.     The  boon  1  pray 
Is  this  —  that  Cy thna  shall  be  convoyed  there  — 
Nay,  start  not  at  the  name  —  America  ! 
And  then  to  you  this  night  Laon  will  I  betray. 


'•  With  me  do  what  ye  will.     I  am  your  foe  !" 
The  light  of  such  a  joy  as  makes  the  stare 
Of  hungry  snakes  like  living  emeralds  glow. 
Shone  in  a  hundred  human  eyes.     "  Where,  where 
Is  Laon  ?    Haste  !  fly  !  drag  him  swiftly  here  ! 
W'e  grant  thy  boon."  —  "I  put  no  trust  in  ye  : 
Swear  by  the  Power  ye  dread."  —  "  We  swear,  we  swear  !' 
The  stranger  threw  his  vest  back  suddenly. 
And  smiled  in  gentle  pride,  and  said,  "  Lo  !  I  am  he  !" 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  153 


CANTO  XII. 


The  transport  of  a  fierce  and  monstrous  gladness 
Spread  through  the  multitudinous  streets,  fast  flying 
Upon  the  winds  of  fear ;  from  his  dull  madness 
The  starveling  waked,  and  died  in  joy  ;  the  dying, 
Among  the  corpses  in  stark  agony  lying, 
Just  heard  the  happy  tidings,  and  in  hope 
Closed  their  faint  eyes,  from  house  to  house  replying 
With  loud  acclaim  ;  the  living  shook  heaven's  cope, 
And  filled  the  stai-tled  earth  with  echoes  :  morn  did  ope 


Its  pale  eyes  then  ;  and  lo  !  the  long  array 
Of  guards  in  golden  arms,  and  priests  beside, 
Singing  their  bloody  hymns,  whose  garbs  betray 
The  blackness  of  the  faith  it  seems  to  hide  ; 
And  see  the  tyrant's  gem- wrought  chariot  glide 
Among  the  gloomy  cowls  and  glittering  spears  — ■ 
A  shape  of  light  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
A  child  most  beautiful.     I'  the  midst  appears 
Laon  —  exempt  alone  from  mortal  hopes  and  fears. 


His  head  and  feel  are  bare,  his  hands  are  bound 
Behind  with  heavy  chains,  yet  none  do  wreak 
Their  scoffs  on  him,  though  myriads  throng  around ; 
There  are  no  sneers  upon  his  lip  which  speak 
That  sconi  or  hate  has  made  him  bold  ;  his  cheek 
Resolve  has  not  turned  pale  —  his  eyes  are  mild 
And  calm,  and,  like  the  morn  about  to  break. 
Smile  on  mankind  —  his  heart  seems  reconciled 
To  all  things  and  itself,  like  a  reposing  child. 


Tumult  w^as  in  the  soul  of  all  beside, 
111  joy  or  doubt  or  fear  ;  but  those  who  saw 
Their  tranquil  victim  pass,  felt  wonder  glide 
Into  their  brain,  and  became  calm  with  aw^e. 
See,  the  slow  pageant  near  the  pile  doth  draw  ! 
A  thousand  torches  in  the  spacious  square. 
Borne  by  the  ready  slaves  of  ruthless  law, 
Await  the  signal  round  :  the  morning  fair 
Is  changed  to  a  dim  night  by  that  unnatural  glare. 


154  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


And  see  !  beneath  a  sun-bright  canopy, 
Upon  a  platform  level  with  the  pile, 
The  anxious  tyrant  sits,  enthroned  on  high. 
Girt  by  the  chieftains  of  the  host.     All  smile 
In  expectation,  but  one  child  :  the  while 
I,  Laon,  led  by  mutes,  ascend  my  bier 
Of  fire,  and  look  around.     Each  distant  isle 
Is  dark  in  the  bright  dawn  ;  towers  far  and  near 
Pierce  like  reposing  flames  the  tremulous  atmosphere. 


There  was  such  silence  through  the  host,  as  when 
An  earthquake,  trampling  on  some  populous  town, 
Has  crushed  ten  thousand  with  one  tread,  and  men 
Expect  the  second  ;  all  were  mate  but  one, 
That  fairest  child,  who,  bold  -with  love,  alone 
Stood  up  before  the  king,  without  avail. 
Pleading  for  Laon's  life  —  her  stifled  groan 
Was  heard  —  she  trembled  like  an  aspen  pale 
Among  the  gloomy  pines  of  a  Norwegian  vale. 


What  were  his  thoughts  linked  in  the  morning  sun, 
Among  those  reptiles,  stingless  with  delay. 
Even  like  a  tyrant's  wrath  ?  —  The  signal-gun 
Roared  —  hark,  again  !    In  that  dread  pause  he  lay 
As  in  a  quiet  dream  :  the  slaves  obey  — 
A  thousand  torches  drop  —  and  hark,  the  last 
Bursts  on  that  awful  silence  !     Far  away 
Millions,  with  hearts  that  beat  both  loud  and  fast, 
Watch  for  the  springing  flame  expectant  and  aghast. 


They  fly  —  the  torches  fall  —  a  cry  of  fear 
Has  startled  the  triumphant !  —  they  recede  ! 
For  ere  the  cannon's  roar  has  died,  they  hear 
The  tramp  of  hoofs  like  earthquake,  and  a  steed 
Dark  and  gigantic,  with  the  tempest's  speed, 
Bursts  through  their  ranks  :  a  w^oman  sits  thereon, 
Fairer  it  seems  than  aught  that  earth  can  breed, 
Calm,  radiant,  like  the  phantom  of  the  dawn, 
A  spirit  from  the  caves  of  daylight  wandering  gone. 


All  thought  it  was  God's  angel  come  to  sweep 
The  lingering  guilty  to  their  fiery  grave  : 
The  tyrant  from  his  throne  in  dread  did  leap  — 
Her  innocence  his  child  from  fear  did  save. 


THE  hevolt  of  islam.  155 

Scared  by  the  faith  thej^  feigned,  each  priestly  slave 
Knelt  for  his  mercy  whom  they  served  with  blood, 
And,  like  the  rehuence  of  a  mighty  wave 
Sucked  into  the  loud  sea,  the  multitude. 
With  crashing  panic,  fled  in  terror's  altered  mood. 


They  pause,  they  blush,  they  gaze  —  a  gathering  shout 
Bursts  like  one  sound  from  the  ten  thousand  streams 
Of  a  tempestuous  sea  :  that  sudden  rout 
One  checked,  who  never  in  his  mildest  dreams 
Felt  awe  from  grace  or  loveliness,  the  seams 
Of  his  rent  heart  so  hard  and  cold  a  creed 
Had  seared  with  blistering  ice  —  but  he  misdeems 
That  he  is  wise,  whose  v^'ounds  do  only  bleed 
Inly  for  self:  thus  thought  the  Iberian  priest  indeed  ; 


And  others,  too,  thought  he  was  wise  to  see 
In  pain  and  fear  and  hate,  something  divine  ; 
In  love  and  beauty  —  no  divinity. 
Now  with  a  bitter  smile,  whose  light  did  shine 
Like  a  fiend's  hope  upon  his  lips  and  eyne, 
He  said,  and  the  persuasion  of  that  sneer 
Rallied  his  trembling  comrades  —  ••  Is  it  mine 
To  stand  alone,  when  kings  and  soldiers  fear 
A  woman  ?    Heaven  has  sent  its  other  victim  here." 


"  Were  it  not  impious,"  said  the  king,  "  to  break 
Our  holy  oath  V  —  "  Impious  to  keep  it,  say  !" 
Shrieked  the  exulting  priest :  "  slaves  !  to  the  stake 
Bind  her,  and  on  my  head  the  burden  lay 
Of  her  just  torments  :  at  the  judgement  day 
Will  I  stand  up  before  the  golden  throne 
Of  Heaven,  and  cry,  '  To  thee  I  did  betray 
An  intidel !  but  for  me,  she  would  have  known 
Another  moment's  joy  !  —  the  glory  be  thine  own.'  " 


They  trembled,  but  replied  not,  nor  obeyed, 
Pausing  in  breathless  silence.     Cythna  sprung 
From  her  gigantic  steed,  who,  like  a  shade 
Chased  by  the  winds,  those  vacant  streets  among 
Fled  tameless,  as  the  brazen  rein  she  flung 
Upon  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  mooned  brow. 
A  piteous  sight,  that  one  so  fair  and  young. 
The  clasp  of  such  a  fearful  death  should  woo 
With  smiles  of  tender  joy  as  beamed  from  Cythna  now, 


156  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


The  warm  tears  burst  in  spite  of  faith  and  fear, 
From  many  a  tremulous  eye,  hut,  like  soft  dews 
"Which  feed  spring's  earliest  buds,  hung  gathered  there, 
Frozen  by  doubt  —  alas  !  they  could  not  choose 
But  -weep  ;  for  when  her  faint  limbs  did  refuse 
To  climb  the  pyre,  upon  the  mutes  she  smiled  ; 
And  with  her  eloquent  gestures,  and  the  hues 
Of  her  quick  lips,  even  as  a  weary  child 
Wins  sleep  from  some  fond  nurse  with  its  caresses  mild. 


She  Avon  them,  though  unwilling,  her  to  bind 
Near  me,  among  the  snakes.     When  then  had  fled 
One  soft  reproach  that  was  mo.st  thrilling  kind, 
She  smiled  on  me,  and  nothing  then  Ave  said, 
But  each  upon  tbe  other's  countenance  fed 
Looks  of  insatiate  love  ;  the  mighty  veil 
Which  doth  divide  the  living  and  the  dead 
Was  almost  rent,  the  world  grew  dim  and  pale  — 
All  light  in  heaven  or  earth  beside  our  love  did  fail. 


Yet  —  yet  —  one  brief  relapse,  like  the  last  beam 
Of  dying  flames,  the  stainless  air  around 
Hung  silent  and  serene.     A  blood-red  gleam 
Burst  upward,  hurling  fiercely  from  the  ground 
The  globed  smoke.  —  I  heard  the  mighty  sound 
Of  its  upri.se,  like  a  tempestuous  ocean  ; 
And  through  its  chasms  I  saw,  as  in  a  s-v\'ound, 
The  tyrant's  child  fall  without  life  or  motion 
Before  his  throne,  subdued  by  some  unseen  emotion. 


And  is  this  death  ?     The  pyre  has  disappeared. 
The  pestilence,  the  tyrant  and  the  throng  ; 
The  flames  grow  silent  —  slowly  there  is  heard 
The  music  of  a  breath-suspending  song, 
Which,  like  the  kiss  of  love  when  life  is  young, 
Steeps  the  faint  eyes  in  darkness  sweet  and  deep; 
With  ever-changing  notes  it  floats  along. 
Till  on  my  passive  .soul  there  seemed  to  creep 
A  melody  like  waves  on  wrinkled  sands  that  leap. 


The  warm  touch  of  a  soft  and  tremulous  hand 
Wakened  me  then  :  lo  !  Cythna  sate  reclined 
Beside  me,  on  the  waved  and  golden  sand 
Of  a  clear  pool,  upon  a  bank  o'ertwined 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  157 

With  strange  and  star-bright  flowers,  which  to  the  wind 
Breathed  divine  odor  ;  high  above,  was  spread 
The  emerald  heaven  of  trees  of  unknown  kind, 
Whose  moonhke  blooms  and  bright  fruit  overhead 
A  shadow,  which  was  light,  upon  the  waters  shed. 


And  round  about  sloped  many  a  lawny  mountain 
With  incense-bearing  forests,  and  vast  caves 
Of  marble  radiance  to  that  mighty  fountain; 
And  where  the  flood  its  own  bright  margin  laves, 
Their  echoes  talk  with  its  eternal  waves. 
Which,  from  the  depths  whose  jagged  caverns  breed 
Their  unreposing  strife,  it  lifts  and  heaves. 
Till  through  a  chasm  of  hills  they  roll.  au<i  feed 
A  river  deep,  which  flies  with  smooth  but  arrowy  speed. 


As  w^e  sate  gazing  in  a  trance  of  wonder, 
A  boat  approached,  borne  by  the  musical  air 
Along  the  waves,  which  sung  and  sparkled  under 
Its  rapid  keel :  a  winged  shape  sat  there, 
A  child  with  silver-shining  wings,  so  fair 
That  as  her  bark  did  through  the  waters  glide. 
The  shadow  of  the  lingering  waves  did  wear 
Light,  as  from  starry  beams  ;  from  side  to  side. 
While  veering  to  the  wind,  her  plumes  the  bark  did  guide. 


XXI. 

The  boat  was  one  curved  shell  of  hollow  pearl, 
Almost  translucent  with  the  light  divine 
Of  her  within  ;  the  prow  and  stern  did  curl, 
Horned  on  high,  like  the  young  moon  supine, 
When,  o'er  dim  twilight  mountains  dark  with  pine. 
It  floats  upon  the  sunset's  sea  of  beams, 
Whose  golden  waves  in  many  a  purple  line 
Fade  fast,  till,  borne  on  sunlight's  ebbing  streams, 
DUating.  on  earth's  verge  the  sunken  meteor  gleams. 


Its  keel  has  struck  the  sands  beside  our  feet ; 
Then  Cythna  turned  to  me,  and  from  her  eyes 
Which  swam  with  unshed  tears,  a  look  more  sweet 
Than  happy  love,  a  wild  and  glad  surprise. 
Glanced  as  she  spake  :  "  Ay,  this  is  paradise 
And  not  a  dream,  and  we  are  all  united  ! 
Lo  !  that  is  mine  own  r-hild,  who.  in  the  guise 
Of  madness,  came  like  day  to  one  benighted 
In  lonesome  woods  :  mv  heart  is  now  too  well  rf>quited  !" 


158  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


And  then  she  wept  aloud,  and  in  her  arms 
Clasped  that  bright  shape,  less  marvelously  fair 
Than  her  own  human  hues  and  living  charms  ; 
Which,  as  she  leaned  in  passion's  silence  there, 
Breathed  warmth  on  the  cold  bosom  of  the  air, 
Which  seemed  to  blush  and  tremble  with  delight ; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  her  streaming  hair 
Fell  o'er  that  snowy  child,  and  wrapped  from  sight 
The  fond  and  long  embrace  which  did  their  hearts  unite. 


Then  the  bright  child,  the  plumed  seraph,  came 
And  fixed  its  blue  and  beaming  eyes  on  mine, 
And  said,  "  1  was  disturbed  by  tremulous  shame 
When  once  we  met,  yet  knew  that  I  was  thine 
From  the  same  hour  in  which  thy  lips  divine 
Kindled  a  clinging  dream  within  my  brain. 
Which  ever  waked  when  1  might  sleep,  to  twine 
Thine  image  -with  her  memory  dear  :  again 
We  meet  —  exempted  now  from  mortal  fear  or  pain. 


"  When  the  consuming  flames  had  wrapped  ye  round, 
The  hope  which  I  had  cherished  went  away  ; 
I  fell  in  agony  on  the  senseless  ground. 
And  hid  mine  eyes  in  dust,  and  far  astray 
My  mind  was  gone,  when  bright,  like  dawning  day, 
The  spectre  of  the  Plague  before  me  flew, 
And  breathed  upon  my  lips,  and  seemed  to  say. 
They  wait  for  thee,  beloved  !'  —  then  I  knew 
The  death-mark  on  my  breast,  and  became  calm  anew. 


''  It  was  the  calm  of  love  —  for  I  was  dying. 
I  saw  the  black  and  half  extinguished  pyre 
In  its  own  gray  and  shrunken  ashes  lying  ; 
The  pitchy  smoke  of  the  departed  fire 
Still  hung  in  many  a  hollow  dome  and  spire 
Above  the  towers,  like  night ;  beneath  whose  shade, 
Awed  by  the  ending  of  their  own  desire, 
The  armies  stood  ;  a  vacancy  was  made 
In  expectation's  depth,  and  so  they  stood  dismayed. 


"  The  frightful  silence  of  that  altered  mood, 
The  tortures  of  the  dying  clove  alone. 
Till  one  uprose  among  the  multitude, 
And  said,  '  The  flood  of  time  is  roUing  on, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  159 

We  stand  upon  its  brink,  while  tfiey  are  gone 
To  glide  in  peace  down  death's  mysterious  stream. 
Have  ye  done  well  ?    They  moulder,  flesh  and  bone. 
Who  might  have  made  this  life's  envenomed  dream 
A  sweeter  draught  than  ye  will  ever  taste,  I  deem. 


"  '  These  perish  as  the  good  and  great  of  yore 
Have  perished,  and  their  murderers  will  repent. 
Yes,  vain  and  barren  tears  shall  flow  before 
Yon  smoke  has  faded  from  the  firmament 
Even  for  this  cause,  that  ye,  who  must  lament 
The  death  of  those  that  made  this  world  so  fair, 
Can  not  recall  them  now  ;  but  then  is  lent 
To  man  the  wisdom  of  a  high  despair, 
When  such  can  die,  and  he  live  on  and  linger  here. 


"  '  Ay,  ye  may  fear  not  now  the  pestilence. 
From  fabled  hell  as  by  a  charm  withdrawn ; 
All  power  and  faith  must  pass,  since  calmly  hence 
In  pain  and  fire  have  unbelievers  gone  ; 
And  ye  must  sadly  turn  away,  and  moan 
In  secret,  to  his  home  each  one  returning ; 
And  to  long  ages  shall  this  hour  be  known  ; 
And  slowly  shall  its  memory,  ever  burning, 
Fill  this  dark  night  of  things  with  an  eternal  morning  ! 


"  '  For  me  the  w^orld  is  grown  too  void  and  cold. 
Since  hope  pursues  immortal  destiny 
With  steps  thus  slow  —  therefore  shall  ye  behold 
How  those  who  love,  yet  fear  not,  dare  to  die ; 
Tell  to  your  children  this  !'  — then  suddenly 
He  sheathed  a  dagger  in  his  heart,  and  fell ; 
My  brain  grew  dark  in  death,  and  yet  to  me 
There  came  a  murmur  from  the  crowd  to  tell 
Of  deep  and  mighty  change  which  suddenly  befell. 


"  Then  suddenly  I  stood  a  winged  Thought 
Before  the  immortal  senate,  and  the  seat 
Of  that  star-shitiing  spirit,  whence  is  wrought 
The  strength  of  its  dominion,  good  and  great, 
The  better  Genius  of  this  world's  estate. 
His  realm  around  one  mighty  fane  is  spread, 
Elysian  islands  bright  and  fortunate. 
Calm  dwellings  of  the  free  and  happy  dead, 
Where  I  am  sent  to  lead  !"     These  winged  words  she  said. 


160  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


And  with  the  silence  of  her  eloquent  smile, 
Bade  us  embark  in  her  divine  canoe  ; 
Then  at  the  helm  we  took  our  seat,  the  while 
Above  her  head  those  plumes  of  dazzling  hue 
Into  the  winds'  invisible  stream  she  threw, 
Sitting  beside  the  prow  :  like  gossamer 
On  the  swift  breath  of  morn,  the  vessel  flew 
O'er  the  bright  whirlpools  of  that  fountain  fair. 
Whose  shores  receded  fast,  while  we  seemed  lingering  there  j 


Till  down  that  mighty  stream  dark,  calm  and  fleet, 
Between  a  chasm  of  cedar  mountains  riven, 
Chased  by  the  thronging  winds,  whose  viewless  feet 
As  swift  as  twinkling  beams,  had,  under  heaven. 
From  woods  and  waves  wild  sounds  and  odors  driven, 
The  boat  flew  visibly  —  three  nights  and  days. 
Borne  like  a  cloud  through  morn  and  noon  and  even. 
We  sailed  along  the  winding  watery  ways 
Of  the  vast  stream,  a  long  and  labyrinthine  maze. 


A  scene  of  joy  and  wonder  to  behold 
That  river's  shapes  and  shadows  changing  ever, 
Where  the  broad  sunrise  filled  with  deepening  gold 
Its  whirlpools,  where  all  hues  did  spread  and  quiver, 
And  where  melodious  falls  did  burst  and  shiver 
Among  rocks  clad  with  flowers,  the  foam  and  spray 
Sparkled  like  stars  upon  the  sunny  river, 
Or  when  the  moonlight  poured  a  holier  day. 
One  vast  and  glittering  lake  around  green  islands  lay. 


Morn,  noon  and  even,  that  boat  of  pearl  outran 
The  streams  which  bore  it,  like  the  arrowy  cloud 
Of  tempest,  or  the  speedier  thought  of  man. 
Which  flieth  forth  and  can  not  make  abode  ; 
Sometimes  through  forests,  deep  like  night,  we  glode. 
Between  the  walls  of  mighty  mountains  crowned 
With  Cyclopean  piles,  whose  turrets  proud, 
The  homes  of  the  departed,  dimly  frowned 
O'er  the  bright  waves  which  girt  their  dark  foundations  round. 


Sometimes  between  the  wide  and  flowering  meadows, 
Mile  after  mile  we  sailed,  and  'twas  delight 
To  see  far  off  the  sunbeams  chase  the  shadows 
Over  the  grass  ;  sometimes  beneath  the  night 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM.  161 

Of  wide  and  vaulted  caves,  whose  roofs  were  bright 
With  starry  gems,  we  fled,  while  from  their  deep 
And  dark  green  chasms,  shades  beautiful  and  white, 
Amid  sweet  sounds  across  our  path  would  sweep, 
Like  swift  and  lovely  dreams  that  walk  the  waves  of  sleep. 


And  ever  as  we  sailed,  our  minds  were  full 
Of  love  and  wisdom,  which  would  ovei-flow 
In  converse  wild  and  sweet  and  wonderful ; 
And  in  quick  smiles  whose  light  would  come  and  go. 
Like  music  o'er  wide  waves,  and  in  the  flow 
Of  sudden  tears,  and  in  the  mute  caress  — 
For  a  deep  shade  was  cleft,  and  we  did  know 
That  virtue,  though  obscured  on  earth,  not  less 
Survives  all  mortal  change  in  lasting  loveliness. 


Three  days  and  nights  we  sailed,  as  thought  and  feeling 
Number  delightful  hours  —  for  through  the  sky 
The  sphered  lamps  of  day  and  night,  revealing 
New  changes  and  new  glories,  rolled  on  high, 
Sun,  moon  and  moonlike  lamps,  the  progeny 
Of  a  diviner  heaven,  serene  and  fair  : 
On  the  fourth  day,  wild  as  a  wind-wrought  sea, 
The  stream  became,  and  flist  aiid  faster  bare 
The  spirit-wiuged  boat,  steadily  speeding  there. 


Steadily  and  swift,  where  the  waves  rolled  like  mountains 
"Within  the  vast  ravine,  whose  rifts  did  pour 
Tumultuous  floods  from  their  ten  thousand  fountains, 
The  thunder  of  whose  eai-th-uplifting  roar 
Made  the  air  sweep  in  whirlwinds  from  the  shore, 
Calm  as  a  shade,  the  boat  of  that  fair  child 
Securely  fled  that  rapid  stress  before. 
Amid  the  topmost  spray,  and  sun-bows  wild, 
Wreathed  in  the  silver  mist :  in  joy  and  pride  we  smiled. 


The  torrent  of  that  wide  and  raging  river 
Is  passed,  and  our  aerial  s|)eed  suspended. 
We  look  behind  :  a  golden  mist  did  quiver 
When  its  wild  surges  with  the  lake  were  blended  : 
Our  bark  hung  there,  as  on  a  line  suspended 
Between  two  heavens,  that  windless  waveless  lake  ; 
Which  four  great  cataracts,  from  four  vales,  attended 
By  mist.s,  aye  feed,  from  rocks  and  clouds  they  break, 
And  of  that  azure  sea  a  silent  )-efuge  make. 
U 


162  THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Motionless  resting  on  the  lake  awhile, 
I  sa^v  its  marge  of  snow-bright  mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  aloft,  I  saw  each  radiant  isle. 
And  in  the  midst,  afar,  even  like  a  sphere 
Hung  in  one  hollow  sky,  did  there  appear 
The  Temple  of  the  Spirit ;  on  the  sound 
Which  issued  thence,  drawn  nearer  and  more  near, 
Like  the  swift  moon  this  glorious  earth  around. 
The  charmed  boat  approached,  and  there  its  haven  found. 


END    OF   THE   REVOLT   OF    ISLAM. 


QUEEN  MAB. 


NOTE  BY  MRS.  SHELLEY. 


Shelley  was  eighteen  when  '  Queen  Mab'  was  written  :  he  never 
published  it.  When  he  wrote  it  he  had  come  to  the  decision  that  he 
was  too  young  to  be  a  'judge  of  controversies  ;'  and  he  was  desirous 
of  acquiring  '  that  sobriety  of  spirit  which  is  the  characteristic  of  true 
heroism.'  But  he  never  doubted  the  truth  or  utility  of  his  opinions  ; 
and  in  printing  and  privately  distributing  '  Queen  Mab'  he  believed 
that  he  should  further  their  dissemination,  without  occasioning  the 
mischief  either  to  others  or  himself  that  might  arise  from  publication. 
The  poem  has  since  been  frequently  reprinted  ;  and  it  is  too  well 
known  and  the  poetry  is  too  beautiful  to  allow  of  its  being  omitted, 
although  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  himself  have  admitted  it  into 
a  collection  of  his  works.  His  severe  classical  taste,  refined  by  tlie 
constant  study  of  the  Greek  poets,  might  have  disoovered  defects  that 
escape  the  ordinary  reader,  and  the  change  his  opinions  underwent  in 
many  points  would  have  prevented  him  from  putting  forth  the  specu- 
lations of  his  boyish  days.  To  a  certain  extent  the  same  motives  in- 
fluence me.  Were  the  poem  still  in  manuscript,  even  less  might  be 
given  ;  as  it  is,  such  portions  are  omitted  as  support,  in  intemperate 
language,  opinions  to  which  at  that  age  he  was  passionately  attached. 

A  series  of  articles  was  published  in  the  '  New  Monthly  Magazine' 
during  the  autumn  of  the  year  1832,  written  by  a  man  of  great  talent, 
a  fellow-collegian  and  warm  friend  of  Shelley  ;  they  describe  admira- 
bly the  state  of  his  mind  during  his  collegiate  life.  Inspired  with  ardor 
for  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  —  endowed  with  the  keenest  sensi- 
bility and  with  the  fortitude  of  a  martyr— Shelley  came  among  his 
fellow  creatures  congregated  for  the  purposes  of  education,  like  a 
spirit  from  another  sphere,  too  delicately  organized  for  the  rough 
treatment  man  uses  toward  man,  especially  in  the  season  of  youth  ; 
and  too  resolute  in  carrying  out  his  own  sense  of  good  and  justice  not 
to  become  a  victim.  To  a  devoted  attachment  to  those  he  loved  he 
added  a  determined  resistance  to  oppression.  Refusing  to  fag  at  Eton, 
he  was  treated  with  revolting  cruelty  by  masters  and  boys  ;  this  roused 
instead  of  taming  his  spirit,  and  he  rejected  the  duty  of  obedience, 
when  it  was  enforced  by  menaces  and  punishment.  To  aversion  to 
the  society  of  his  fellow-creatures,  such  as  he  found  them  when  col- 
lected together  in  societies,  where  one  egged  on  the  other  to  acts  of 
tyranny,  was  joiiied  the  deepest  sympathy  and  compassion  ;  while  the 
attachment  he  felt  for  individuals  and  the  admiration  with  which  he 
regarded  their  powers  and  their  virtues,  led  him  to  entertain  a  high 
opinion  of  the  perfectibility  of  human  nature,  and  he  believed  that  all 
could  reach  the  highest  grade  of  moral  improvement,  did  not  thf* 


166  NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 

customs  and  prejudices  of  society  foster  evil  passions  and  excuse  evil 
actions. 

The  oppression  which,  trembling  at  every  nerve  yet  resolute  to 
heroism,  it  was  his  ill  fortune  to  encounter  at  school  and  at  college, 
led  him  to  dissent  in  all  things  from  those  whose  arguments  were 
blows,  whose  faith  appeared  to  engender  blame  and  execration.  '•  Du- 
ring my  existence,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend  in  1812,  "  I  have  incessantly 
speculated,  thought  and  read."  His  readings  were  not  always  well 
chosen,  and  among  them  were  the  works  of  the  French  philosophers. 
As  far  as  metaphysical  argument  went,  he  temporarily  became  a  con- 
vert. At  the  same  time,  it  was  the  cardinal  article  of  his  faith  that  if 
men  were  but  taught  and  induced  to  treat  tlieir  fellows  with  love, 
charity  and  equal  rights,  this  earth  would  realize  paradise.  He  looked 
upon  religion  as  it  is  professed,  and  above  all  practised,  as  hostile  in- 
stead of  friendly  to  the  cultivation  of  those  virtues  which  would  make 
men  brothers. 

Can  this  be  wondered  at  ?  At  the  age  of  seventeen,  fragile  in  health 
and  frame,  of  the  purest  habits  in  morals,  full  of  devoted  generosity 
and  universal  kindness,  glowing  with  ardor  to  attain  wisdom,  resolved 
at  every  personal  sacrifice  to  do  right,  burning  with  a  desire  for  affec- 
tion and  sympathy  —  he  was  treated  as  a  reprobate,  cast  forth  as  a 
criminal. 

The  cause  was,  that  he  was  sincere  —  that  he  believed  the  opinions 
which  he  entertained,  to  be  true  ;  and  he  loved  truth  with  a  martyr's 
love  :  he  was  ready  to  sacrifice  station  and  fortune  and  his  dearest 
affections  at  its  shrine.  The  sacrifice  was  demanded  from  and  made 
by  a  youth  of  seventeen.  It  is  a  singular  fact  in  the  history  of  society 
in  the  civilized  nations  of  modern  times,  that  no  false  step  is  so  irre- 
trievable as  one  made  in  early  youth.  Older  men,  it  is  true,  when 
they  oppose  their  fellows  and  transgress  ordinary  rules,  carry  a  certain 
prudence  or  hypocrisy  as  a  shield  along  with  them.  But  youth  is  rash  ; 
nor  can  it  imagine,  while  asserting  what  it  believes  to  be  true,  and 
doing  what  it  believes  to  be  right,  that  it  should  be  denounced  as  vi- 
cious and  pursued  as  a  criminal. 

Shelley  possessed  a  quality  of  mind  which  experience  has  shown  me 
no  other  human  being  as  participating,  in  more  than  a  very  slight  de- 
gree :  this  was  his  unworldliness.  The  usual  motives  that  rule  men  — 
prospects  of  present  or  future  advantage,  the  rank  and  fortune  of 
those  around,  the  taunts  and  censures  or  the  praise  of  those  who  were 
hostile  to  him  — had  no  influence  whatever  over  his  actions,  and  ap- 
rently  none  over  his  thoughts.  It  is  difficult  even  to  express  the  sim- 
plicity and  directness  of  purpose  that  adorned  him.  The  world's  bright- 
est gauds  and  its  most  solid  advantages  were  of  no  worth  in  his  eyes, 
when  compared  to  the  cause  of  what  lie  considered  truth,  and  the 
good  of  his  fellow-creatures.  Born  in  a  posiiion  which,  to  his  inexpe- 
rienced mind,  aflforded  the  greatest  facilities  to  practise  the  tenets  he 
espoused,  he  boldly  declared  the  use  he  would  make  of  fortune  and 
station,  and  enjoyed  the  belief  that  he  should  materially  benefit  his 
fellow-creatures  by  his  actions  ;  while,  conscious  of  surpassing  powers 
of  reason  and  imagination,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  should,  even  while 
so  young,  have  believed  that  his  written  thoughts  would  tend  to  dis- 
seminate opinions  which  he  beheved  conducive  to  the  happiness  of  the 
human  race. 

If  man  were  a  creature  devoid  of  passion,  he  might  have  said  and 
done  all  this  with  quietness.  But  he  was  too  enthusiastic,  and  too  full 
of  hatred  of  all  the  ills  he  witnessed,  not  to  scorn  danger.  Various 
disappointments  tortured  but  could  not  tame  his  soul.  The  more  en- 
mitv  he  met.  the  more  earnestly  he  became  attaclied  to  his  peculiar 
views,  and  hostile  to  those  of  the  men  who  persecuted  him. 

He  was  animated  to  greater  zeal  by  compassion  for  his  fellow-crea- 
tures.   His  sympathy  was  excited  by  the  misery  with  which  the  world 


NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB.  167 

is  bursting.  He  witnessed  the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  and  was  aware 
of  the  evils  of  ignorance.  He  desired  to  induce  every  rich  man  to 
despoil  himself  of  superfluity,  and  to  create  a  brotherhood  of  property 
and  service,  and  was  ready  to  be  the  first  to  lay  down  the  advantages 
of  his  birth.  He  was  of  too  uncompromising  a  disposition  to  join  any 
parly.  He  did  not  in  his  youth  look  forward  to  gradual  improvement ; 
nay,  in  those  days  of  intolerance,  now  almost  forgotten,  it  seemed  as 
easy  to  look  forward  to  the  sort  of  millennium  of  freedom  and  broth- 
erhood which  he  thougbt  the  proper  state  of  mankind,  as  to  the  pres- 
ent reign  of  moderation  and  improvement.  Ill  health  made  him  be- 
lieve that  his  race  would  soon  be  run  —  that  a  year  or  two  was  all  he 
had  of  life.  He  desired  that  these  years  should  be  useful  and  illustri- 
ous. He  saw,  in  a  fervent  call  on  his  fellow-cieatures  to  share  alike 
the  blessings  of  the  creation,  to  love  and  serve  each  other,  the  noblest 
work  that  Ufe  and  time  permitted  him.  In  this  spirit  he  composed 
'Queen  Mab.'* 

He  was  a  lover  of  the  wonderful  and  wild  in  literature,  but  had  not 
fostered  these  tastes  at  their  genuine  sources — the  romances  and 
chivalry  of  the  middle  ages  —  but  in  the  perusal  of  such  German  works 
as  were  current  in  those  days.  Under  the  influence  of  these,  he  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  wrote  two  short  prose  romances  of  slender  merit. 
The  sentiments  and  language  were  exaggerated,  the  composition  imi- 
tative and  poor.  He  wrote  also  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  Ahasuerus 
—  being  led  to  it  by  a  German  fragment  he  picked  up,  dirty  and  torn, 
in  Lincoln's- Inn- Fields.  This  fell  afterward  into  other  hands  — and 
was  considerably  altered  before  it  was  printed.  Our  earlier  English 
poetry  was  almost  unknown  to  him.  The  love  and  knowledge  of  na- 
ture developed  by  Wordsworth  —  the  lofty  melody  and  mysterious 
beauty  of  Coleridge's  poetry  —  and  the  wild  fantastic  machinery  and 
gorgeous  scenery  adopted  by  Southey,  composed  his  lavorite  reading  ; 
the  rhythm  of  '  Queen  Mab'  was  founded  on  that  of  '  Thalaba,'  and  the 
first  few  lines  bear  a  striking  resemblance  in  spirit,  though  not  in  idea, 
to  the  opening  of  that  poem.  His  fertile  imagination,  and  ear  tuned  to 
the  finest  sense  of  harmony,  preserved  him  from  imitation.  From  his 
boyhood  he  had  a  wonderful  facility  of  versification  which  he  carried 
into  another  language,  and  his  Latin  school  verses  were  composed 
with  an  ease  and  correctness  that  procured  for  him  prizes  —  and 
caused  him  to  be  resorted  to  by  all  his  friends  for  help.  He  was,  at 
the  period  of  writing  '  Queen  Mab,'  a  great  traveler  within  the  limits  of 
England,  Scotland  and  Ireland.  His  time  was  spent  among  the  love- 
liest scenes  of  these  countries.  Mountain  and  lake  and  forest  were 
his  home  ;  the  phenomena  of  nature  were  his  favorite  study.  He  loved 
to  inquire  into  their  causes,  and  was  addicted  to  pursuits  of  natural 
philosophy  and  chirnistry,  as  far  as  they  could  be  carried  on  as  an 
amusement.  These  tastes  gave  truth  and  vivacity  to  his  descriptions, 
and  warmed  his  soul  with  that  deep  admiration  for  the  wonders  of 
nature  which  constant  association  with  her  inspired. 

He  never  intended  to  publish  '  Queen  Mab'  as  it  stands  ;  but  a  few 
years  after,  when  printing  '  Alastor,'  he  extracted  a  small  portion 
which  he  entitled  'The  Demon  of  the  World;'  in  this  he  changed 
somewhat  the  versification  —  and  made  other  alterations  scarcely  to 
be  called  improvements. 

J  extract  the  invocation  of  Queen  Mab  to  the  Soul  of  lanthe,  as  al- 
tered in  '  The  Demon  of  the  World.'  I  give  it  as  a  specimen  of  the 
alterations  made.    It  well  characterizes  his  own  state  of  mind  : 

Maiden,  the  world's  supremest  spirit 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wings 
Folds  all  thy  memory  doth  inherit 
From  ruin  of  divinest  things, 
*  But  thia  spirit  was  fully  given  scope  only  iu  '  The  Revolt  of  Islam.'— [JE(i 


168  NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 

Feelings  that  lure  thee  to  betray, 
And  light  of  thoughts  that  pass  away. 

For  thou  hast  earned  a  mighty  boon  ; 
The  truths  which  wisest  poets  see 
Dimly,  thy  mind  may  make  its  own, 
Rewarding  its  own  majesty, 

Entranced  in  some  diviner  mood 
Of  self-oblivious  solitude. 

Custom  and  faith  and  power  thou  spurnest, 

From  hate  and  fear  thy  heart  is  free  ; 
Ardent  and  pure  as  day  thou  burnest 
For  dark  and  cold  mortality  ; 

A  living  light  to  cheer  it  long, 

The  watchfires  of  the  world  among. 

Therefore,  from  Nature's  inner  shrine, 

Where  gods  and  fiends  in  worship  bend, 
Majestic  Spirit,  be  it  thine 
The  flame  to  seize,  the  veil  to  rend, 
Where  the  vast  snake  Eternity 
In  charmed  sleep  doth  ever  lie. 

All  that  inspires  thy  voice  of  love. 
Or  speaks  in  thy  unclosing  eyes. 
Or  through  thy  frame  doth  burn  and  move. 
Or  think,  or  feel  —  awake,  arise  ! 
Spirit,  leave  for  mine  and  me 
Earth's  unsubstantial  mimicry ! 

Some  years  after,  when  in  Italy,  a  bookseller  published  an  edition 
of  '  Queen  Mab'  as  it  originally  stood.  Shelley  was  hastily  written  to 
by  his  friends,  under  the  idea  that,  deeply  injurious  as  the  mere  distri- 
bution of  the  poem  had  proved,  the  publication  might  awaken  fresh 
persecutions.  At  the  suggestion  of  these  friends  he  wrote  a  letter  on 
the  subject,  printed  in  'The  Examiner'  newspaper  —  with  which  I 
close  this  history  of  his  earliest  work. 

"To    THE    EDITOR    OF    'THE    EXAMINER.' 

"  Sir  :  Having  heard  that  a  poem  entitled  '  Queen  Mab'  has  been 
surreptitiously  published  in  London,  and  that  legal  proceedings  have 
been  instituted  against  the  publisher,  I  request  the  favor  of  your  in- 
sertion of  the  following  explanation  of  the  aflfair,  as  it  relates  to  me  : 

"A  poem  entitled  '  Queen  Mab'  was  written  by  me,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  I  dare  say  in  a  sufficiently  intemperate  spirit  —  but  even  then 
was  not  intended  for  publication,  and  a  few  copies  only  were  struck 
off,  to  be  distributed  among  my  personal  friends.  I  have  not  seen  this 
production  for  several  years  ;  I  douDt  not  but  that  it  is  perfectly  worth- 
less in  point  of  literary  composition ;  and  that  in  all  that  concerns 
moral  and  political  speculation,  as  well  as  in  the  subtler  discrimina- 
tions of  metaphysical  and  religious  doctrine,  it  is  still  more  crude  and 
immature.  I  am  a  devoted  enemy  to  religious,  political  and  domestic 
oppression  ;  and  I  regret  this  publication  not  so  much  from  literary 
vanity,  as  because  I  fear  it  is  better  fitted  to  injure  than  to  serve  the 
sacred  cause  of  freedom.  I  have  directed  my  solicitor  to  apply  to 
chancery  for  an  injunction  to  restrain  the  sale  ;  but  after  the  prece- 
dent of  Mr.  Southey's  '  Wat  Tyler'  (a  poem  written,  I  believe,  at  the 
same  age  and  with  the  same  unreflecting  enthusiasm),  with  little  hope 
of  success. 


I 


NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB.  169 

"  While  I  exonerate  myself  from  all  share  in  having  divulged  opin- 
ions hostile  to  existing  sanctions,  under  the  form,  whatever  it  maybe, 
which  they  assume  in  this  poem  —  it  is  scarcely  necessary  for  me  to 
protest  against  the  system  of  inculcating  the  truth  of  Christianity  or 
the  excellence  of  monarchy,  however  true  or  however  excellent  they 
may  be,  by  such  equivocal  arguments  as  confiscation  and  imprison- 
ment, and  invective  and  slaxider,  and  the  insolent  violation  of  the  most 
sacred  ties  of  nature  and  society. 

".  Sir, 
"I  am  your  obliged  and  obedient  servant, 

"Percy  B.  Shelley. 

"  Pisa,  June  ^'2,  1821." 


aUEEN   MAB. 


How  wonderful  is  Death — 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning-  moon, 

"With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ; 
The  other,  rosy  as  the  mom 

When  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world  : 
Yet  both  so  passing  won4erful ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power  « 

"Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
"Which  love  and  admiration  can  not  view 
"Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow. 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish  ? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ? 
Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme. 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize  ? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 

Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness  ? 
"Will  lanthe  wake  again. 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
"Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
-  -  Light,  life  and  rapture  from  her  smile  ? 

Yes !  she  will  wake  again, 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless, 
And  silent  those  sweet  lips. 


172  QUEEN    MAB. 

Once  breathing  eloquence 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage. 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 

Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneatli, 

The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed  : 

Her  golden  tresses  shade 

The  bosom's  stainless  pride, 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 

Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark  !  whence  that  rushing  sound  ? 

'Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells, 
"Which,  w^andering  on  the  echoing  shore. 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening  : 
'Tis  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh  ; 
'Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep  : 

Those  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  w^hen  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedral  w^indow,  but  the  tints 

Are  such  as  may  not  find 

Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  Fairy  Queen  ! 
Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air ; 
Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl, 
And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light : 
These  the  dueen  of  Spells  drew  in, 
She  spread  a  charm  around  the  spot, 
And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car, 
Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently, 
Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 
Oh  !  not  the  visioned  poet  in  his  dreams, 
When  silvery  clouds  float  through  the  wildei-ed  brain, 
When  every  sight  of  lovely,  wild  and  grand, 
Astonishes,  enraptures,  elevates  — 
When  fancy  at  a  glance  combines 
The  w^ondrous  and  the  beautiful  — 
So  bright,  so  fair,  so  wild  a  shape 
Hath  ever  yet  beheld, 
As  that  which  reined  the  coursers  of  the  aii*. 
And  poured  the  magic  of  her  gaze 
Upon  the  sleeping  maid. 

The  broad  and  yellow  moon 

Shone  dimly  through  her  form  — 
That  form  of  faultless  symmetry ; 
The  pearly  and  pellucid  car 

Moved  not  the  moonlight's  line : 


QUEEN     MAB.  173 

'Twas  not  an  earthly  pageant; 
Those  who  had  looked  upon  the  sight, 

Passing  all  human  glory, 

Saw^  not  the  yello\v  moon, 

Saw  not  the  mortal  scene, 

Heard  not  the  night-wind's  rush, 

Heard  not  an  earthly  sound. 

Saw  but  the  fairy  pageant, 

Heard  but  the  heavenly  strains 

That  filled  the  lonely  dwelling. 
The  Fairy's  frame  was  slight ;  yon  fibrous  cloud, 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tinge  of  even, 
And  which  the  straining  eye  can  hardly  seize 
When  melting  into  eastern  twilight's  shadow, 
Were  scarce  so  thin,  so  slight :  but  the  fair  star 
That  gems  the  glittering  coronet  of  morn, 
Sheds  not  a  light  so  mild,  so  powerful, 
As  that  which,  bursting  from  the  Fairy's  form, 
Spread  a  purpureal  halo  round  the  scene, 
Yet  with  an  undulatiug  motion, 
Swayed  to  her  outline  gracefully. 

From  her  celestial  car 

The  Fairy  dueen  descended, 

And  thrice  she  waved  her  wand 
Circled  w-ith  wreaths  of  amaranth  : 

Her  thin  and  misty  form 

Moved  with  the  moving  air. 

And  the  clear  silver  tones. 

As  thus  she  spoke,  were  such 
As  are  unheard  by  all  but  gifted  ear. 


Stars  !  your  balmiest  influence  shed  ! 
Elements  !  your  wrath  suspend  ! 
Sleep,  Ocean,  in  the  rocky  bounds 
That  circle  thy  domain  ! 
Let  not  a  breath  be  seen  to  stir 
Around  yon  grass-grown  ruin's  highlh, 
Let  even  the  restless  gossamer 
Sleep  on  the  moveless  air  ! 
Soul  of  lanthe  !  thou. 
Judged  alone  worthy  of  the  envied  boon 
That  waits  the  good  and  the  .sincere  ;  that  waits 
Those  who  have  struggled,  and  with  resolute  will 
Vanquished  earth's  pride  and  meanness,  burst  the  chains, 
The  icy  chains  of  cu.stom.  and  have  shone 
The  day  stars  of  their  age  —  Soul  of  lanthe ! 
Awake  !  arise  ! 

Sudden  arose 
lanthe' s  Soul :  it  stood 


174  QUEEN    MAB. 

All  beautiful  in  naked  purity, 
The  perfect  semblance  of  its  bodily  frame. 
Instinct  with  inexpressible  beauty  and  grace, 
Each  stain  of  eartliliness 
Had  passed  away,  it  reassumcd 
Its  native  dignity,  and  stood 
Immortal  amid  ruin. 

Upon  the  couch  the  body  lay. 
Wrapped  in  the  depth  of  slumber  : 
Its  features  w^ere  fixed  and  meaningless, 

Yet  animal  life  was  there, 
And  every  organ  yet  performed 
Its  natural  functions  ;  'twas  a  sight 
Of  wonder  to  behold  the  body  and  soul. 
The  selfsame  lineaments,  the  same 
Marks  of  identity  were  there  ; 
Yet,  oh  how  ditferent !     One  aspires  to  heaven, 
Pants  for  its  sempiternal  heritage, 
And  ever  changing,  ever  rising  still. 

Wantons  in  endless  being. 
The  other,  for  a  time  the  unwilling  sport 
Of  circumstance  and  passion,  struggles  on  ; 
Fleets  through  its  sad  duration  rapidly  — 
Then  like  a  useless  and  worn-out  machine, 
Rots,  perishes  and  passes. 


Spirit !  who  hast  dived  so  deep ; 
Spirit !  who  hast  soared  so  high  ; 
Thou  the  fearless,  thou  the  mild, 
Accept  the  boon  thy  worth  hath  earned, 
Ascend  the  car*  with  me. 


SPIRIT. 

Do  I  dream  ?    Is  this  new  feeling 
But  a  visioned  ghost  of  slumber  ? 

If  indeed  I  am  a  soul, 

A  free,  a  disembodied  soul, 

Speak  again  to  me. 


I  am  the  Fairy  Map,  :  to  me  'tis  given 
The  w^onders  of  the  human  world  to  keep. 
The  secrets  of  the  immeasurable  past, 
In  the  unfailing  consciences  of  men, 
Those  stern,  unflattering  chroniclers,  I  find 
The  future,  from  the  causes  which  arise 
In  each  event.  I  gatlier  :  not  the  sting 
Which  retributive  memory  implants 


QUEEN    MAB.  175 


In  the  hard  bosom  of  the  selfish  man  ; 
Nor  that  ecstatic  and  exulting  throb 
Which  virtue's  votary  feels  when  he  sums  tip 
The  thoughts  and  actions  of  a  well-spent  day, 
Are  unforeseen,  unregistered  by  me  : 
And  it  is  yet  permitted  me  to  rend 
The  veil  of  mortal  frailty,  that  the  spirit, 
Clothed  in  its  changeless  purity,  may  know 
How  soonest  to  accomplish  the  great  end 
For  which  it  hath  its  being,  and  may  taste 
That  peace  which  in  the  end  all  life  will  share. 
This  is  the  meed  of  virtue  ;  happy  Soul, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me  ! 

The  chains  of  earth's  immurement 

Fell  from  lanthe's  spirit ; 
They  shrank  and  brake  like  bandages  of  straw 
Beneath  a  wakened  giant's  strength. 

She  knew  her  glorious  change. 
And  felt  in  apprehension  uncontrolled 

New  raptures  opening  round  : 
Each  day  dream  of  her  mortal  life, 
Each  phrenzied  vision  of  the  slumbers 

That  closed  each  well-spent  day, 

Seemed  now  to  meet  reality. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Soul  proceeded  ; 
The  silver  clouds  disparted  ; 
And  as  the  car  of  magic  they  ascended, 
Again  the  speechless  music  swelled, 
Again  the  coursers  of  the  air 
Unfurled  their  azure  pennons,  and  the  dueen, 
Shaking  the  beamy  reins, 
Bade  them  pursue  their  way. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
The  night  was  fair,  and  countless  stars 
Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault  — 

Ju.st  o'er  the  eastern  w^ave 
Peeped  the  first  faint  smile  of  morn  : 

The  magic  car  moved  on  — 

From  the  celestial  hoofs 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew. 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied  above  the  mountaUi's  loftiest  peak, 
Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  it  Hew  far  above  a  rock, 

The  utmost  verge  of  earth, 
The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 

Lowered  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path, 
Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 


176  QUEEN    MAB. 

Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 
The  mirror  of  its  stillness  showed 

The  pale  and  waning  stai's. 

The  chariot's  fiery  track, 

And  the  gray  light  of  morn 

Tinging  those  fleecy  clouds 

That  canopied  the  dawn. 
Seemed  it,  that  the  chariot's  way 
Lay  through  the  midst  of  an  immense  concave. 
Radiant  w^ith  million  constellations,  tinged 

With  shades  of  infinite  color 

And  semicircled  with  a  belt 

Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 

As  they  approached  their  goal, 

The  coursers  seemed  to  gather  speed  ; 

The  sea  no  longer  was  distinguished  ;  earth 

Appeared  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere  ; 

The  sun's  unclouded  orb 

Rolled  through  the  black  concave  ; 

Its  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course. 
And  fell,  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 

Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 

Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appealed 
The  smallest  light  that  twinkles  in  the  heaven ; 
While  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  rolled, 
And  countless  spheres  diffused 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder  :  some 
Were  horned  like  the  crescent  moon  ; 
Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 
Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea  ; 
Some  dashed  athwart  with  trains  of  flame. 
Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven  ; 
Some  shone  like  suns,  and  as  the  chariot  passed, 
Eclipsed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  here  ! 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  immen.sity 
Even  soaring  fancy  staggers, 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 
Yet  not  the  slightest  leaf 
That  quivers  to  the  pas.sing  breeze 
Is  less  instinct  with  thee  : 
Yet  not  the  meanest  worm 
That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  on  the  dead 


QUEEN    MAB.  177 


Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou  ! 
Imperishable  as  this  scene, 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple  ! 


II. 


If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore, 
And  thou  hast  lingered  there, 
Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seemed  resting  on  the  burnished  wave, 

Thou  must  have  marlied  the  lines 
Of  purple  gold  that  motionless 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere  : 
Thou  must  have  marked  the  billowy  clouds 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 
Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 
Crowned  with  a  diamond  wreath. 
And  yet  there  is  a  moment, 
When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge, 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold, 
Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 
Like  islands  on  a  dark  blue  sea  ; 
Then  has  thy  fancy  soared  above  the  earth, 
And  furled  its  wearied  wing 
Within  the  Fairy's  fane. 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
Gleaming  in  you  flood  of  light, 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
Stretching  o'er  the  sun's  bright  couch. 
Nor  the  burnished  ocean-waves, 
Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  Mab's  etlierial  palace  could  afford. 
Yet  likest  evening's  vault,  that  fairy  hall ! 
As  heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it  spread 
Its  floors  of  Hashing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 
Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a  silver  sea ; 
While  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 
And  pearly  battlements  around 
Looked  o'er  the  immense  of  lieaven 


178  QUEEN    MAB. 

The  magic  car  no  longer  moved. 
The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Entered  the  Hall  of  Spells : 
Thoi^e  golden  clouds 
That  rolled  in  glittering  billows 
Beneath  the  azure  canopy, 
With  the  ethereal  footsteps  trembled  not : 

The  light  and  crimson  mists, 
Floating  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 
Through  that  unearthly  dwelling, 
Yielded  to  every  movement  of  the  will. 
Upon  their  passive  swell  the  Spirit  leaned, 
And,  for  the  varied  bliss  that  pressed  around, 
Used  not  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  virtue  and  of  wisdom. 


Spirit !  the  Fairy  said, 
And  pointed  to  the  gorgeous  dome, 

This  is  a  wondrous  sight 
And  mocks  all  human  grandeur ; 
But,  were  it  virtue's  only  meed  to  dwell 
In  a  celestial  palace,  all  resigned 
To  pleasurable  impulses,  immured 
Within  the  prison  of  itself,  the  -will 
Of  changeless  nature  would  be  unfulfilled. 
Learn  to  make  others  happy.     Spirit,  cpme  ! 
This  is  thine  high  rew^ard  :  the  past  shall  rise ; 
Thou  shalt  behold  the  present ;  I  will  teach 

The  secrets  of  the  future. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Approached  the  overhanging  battlement. 
Below  lay  stretched  the  universe ! 
There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 
That  bounds  imagination's  flight, 

Countless  and  unending  orbs 
In  mazy  motion  intermingled. 
Yet  still  fulfilled  immutably 
Eternal  Nature's  law. 
Above,  below,  around. 
The  circling  systems  formed 
A  wilderness  of  harmony  ; 
Each  with  undeviating  aim 
In  eloquent  silence  through  the  depths  of  space 
Pursued  its  w^ondrous  way. 

There  was  a  little  light 
That  twinkled  in  the  misty  distance  : 
None  but  a  spirit's  eye 
Might  ken  that  rolling  orb  ; 
None  but  a  spirit's  eye, 
And  in  no  other  place 


QUEEN    MAB.  179 


But  that  celestial  dwelling,  might  behold 
Each  action  of  this  earth's  inhabitants. 

But  matter,  space  and  time. 
In  those  aerial  mansions  cease  to  act; 
And  all-prevailing  wisdom,  when  it  reaps 
The  harvest  of  its  excellence,  o'erbounds 
Those  obstacles,  of  which  an  earthly  soul 
Fears  to  attempt  the  conquest. 

The  Faiiy  pointed  to  the  earth. 
The  Spirit's  intellectual  eye 
Its  kindred  beings  recognized. 
The  thronging  thousands,  to  a  passing  view, 
Seemed  like  an  ant-hill's  citizens. 
How  wonderful !  that  even 
The  passions,  prejudices,  interests, 
That  sway  the  meanest  being,  the  weak  touch 
That  moves  the  finest  nerve 
And  in  one  human  brain 
Causes  the  faintest  thought,  becomes  a  link 
In  the  great  chain  of  nature. 

Behold,  the  Fairy  cried, 
Palmyra's  ruined  palaces ! 

Behold  !  where  grandeur  frowned  ; 

Behold  !  where  pleasure  smiled  ; 
What  novk^  remains  ?  the  memory 

Of  senselessness  and  shame  — 

What  is  immortal  there  ? 

Nothing  —  it  stands  to  tell 

A  melancholy  tale,  to  give 

An  awful  warning  :  soon 
Oblivion  will  steal  silently 

The  remnant  of  its  fame. 

Monarchs  and  conquerors  there 
Proud  o'er  prostrate  millions  trod — 
The  earthquakes  of  the  human  race. 
Like  them,  forgotten  when  the  ruin 

That  marks  their  shock  is  past. 

Beside  the  eternal  Nile 

The  Pyramids  have  risen. 
Nile  shall  pursue  his  changeless  way  ; 

Those  Pyiamids  shall  fall ; 
Yea  !  not  a  stone  shall  stand  to  tell 

The  spot  whereon  they  stood  ; 
Their  very  site  shall  be  forgotten, 

As  is  their  builder's  name  ! 

Behold  yon  sterile  spot ; 
Where  now"  the  wandering  Arab's  tent 
Flaps  in  the  desert-blaKt. 


180  QUEEN    MAB. 

There  once  old  Salem's  haughty  fane 
Reared  high  to  heaven  its  thousand  golden  domes, 

And  in  the  blushing  face  of  day 
Exposed  its  shameful  glory. 
Oh  !  many  a  widow,  many  an  orphan  cursed 
The  building  of  that  fane  ;  and  many  a  father, 
Worn  out  with  toil  and  slavery,  implored 
The  poor  man's  God  to  sweep  it  from  the  earth, 
And  spare  his  children  the  detested  task 
Of  piling  stone  on  stone,  and  poisoning 
The  choicest  days  of  life, 
To  soothe  a  dotard's  vanity. 
There  an  inhuman  and  uncultured  race 
Howled  hideous  praises  to  their  Demon-God  ; 
Thej^  rushed  to  war,  tore  from  the  mother's  womb 
The  unborn  child  —  old  age  and  infancy 
Promiscuous  perished  ;  their  victorious  arms 
Left  not  a  soul  to  breathe.     Oh  !  they  were  fiends  : 
But  what  was  he  who  taught  them  that  the  God 
Of  nature  and  benevolence  had  given 
A  special  sanction  to  the  trade  of  blood  ? 
His  name  and  theirs  are  fading,  and  the  tales 
Of  this  barbarian  nation,  which  impo.sture 
Recites  till  terror  credits,  are  pursuing 

Itself  into  forgetfulness. 

Where  Athens,  Rome  and  Sparta  stood, 
There  is  a  moral  desert  now  : 
The  mean  and  miserable  huts. 
The  yet  more  wretched  palaces. 
Contrasted  with  those  ancient  fanes. 
Now  crumbling  to  oblivion  ; 
The  long  and  lonely  colonnades, 
Through  which  the  ghost  of  freedom  stalks. 
Seem  like  a  well-known  tune, 
Which,  in  some  dear  .scene  we  have  loved  to  hear, 
Remembered  now  in  sadness. 
But,  oh  !  how  much  more  changed, 
How  gloomier  is  the  contrast 
Of  human  nature  thei-e  ! 
Where  Socrates  expired,  a  tyrant's  slave, 
A  coward  and  a  fool,  spreads  death  around  — 

Then,  shuddering  meets  his  own. 
Where  Cicero  and  Antoninus  lived, 
A  cowled  and  hypocritical  monk 
Prays,  curses  and  deceives. 

Spirit !  ten  thousand  years 

Have  scarcely  past  away 
Since,  in  the  waste  where  now  the  savage  drinks 
His  enemy's  blood,  and  aping  Europe's  sons, 

Wakes  the  unholy  song  of  war, 


QUEEN    MAB.  181 


Arose  a  stately  city, 
Metropolis  of  the  western  continent ; 

There,  now,  the  mossy  column  stone, 
indented  by  time's  unrelaxing  grasp, 
Which  once  appe'ared  to  brave 
All.  save  its  country's  ruin  ; 
There  the  wide  forest  scene, 
Rude  in  the  uncultivated  loveliness 

Of  gardens  long  run  wild, 
Seems,  to  the  unwilling  sojourner,  whose  steps 

Chance  in  that  desert  has  delayed. 
Thus  to  have  stood  since  earth  was  what  it  is. 

Yet  once  it  was  the  busiest  haunt. 
Whither,  as  to  a  common  centre,  flocked 
Strangers  and  ships  and  merchandize  : 
Once  peace  and  freedom  blest 
The  cultivated  plain  : 
But  wealth,  that  curse  of  man, 
Blighted  the  bud  of  its  prosperity  : 
Virtue  and  wisdom,  truth  and  liberty. 
Fled,  to  return  not  until  man  shall  kno\v 
That  they  alone  can  give  the  bliss 

Worthy  a  soul  that  claims 
Its  kindred  with  eternity. 


There's  not  one  atom  of  yon  earth 

But  once  was  living  man  ; 
Nor  the  minutest  drop  of  rain 
That  hangeth  in  its  thinnest  cloud 
But  flowed  in  human  veins  : 
And  from  the  burning  plains 
Where  Lybian  monsters  yell. 
From  the  most  gloomy  glens 
Of  Greenland's  sunless  clime. 
To  where  the  golden  fields 
Of  fertile  England  spread 
Their  harvest  to  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  find  one  spot 
Whereon  no  city  stood. 

How  strange  is  human  pride 
1  tell  thee  that  tho.se  living  things 
To  whom  the  fragile  blade  of  grass 
That  springeth  in  the  morn 
And  peri.sheth  ere  noon, 
Is  an  unbounded  world  ; 
I  tell  thee  that  those  viewless  beings 
Whose  mansion  is  the  smallest  particle 
Of  the  impassive  atmosphere, 
Think,  feel  and  live  like  man  ; 
That  their  affections  and  antipathies, 
Like  his,  product'  the  liivv.s 


182  QUEEN    MAB. 

Ruling  their  moral  state  ; 
And  the  minutest  throb 
That  through  their  frame  diffuses 
The  slightest,  faintest  motion, 
Is  fixed  and  indispensable 
As  the  majestic  laws 
That  rule  yon  rolling  orbs. 

The  Fairy  paused.     The  Spirit, 
In  ecstacy  of  admiration,  felt 
All  knowledge  of  the  past  revived  ;  the  events 

Of  old  and  wondrous  times, 
Which  dim  tradition  inten-uptedly 
Teaches  the  credulous  vulgar,  were  unfolded 
In  just  perspective  to  the  view  ; 
Yet  dim  from  their  infinitude. 
The  Spirit  seemed  to  stand 
High  on  an  isolated  pinnacle  ; 
The  flood  of  ages  combating  below, 
The  depth  of  the  unbounded  universe 
Above,  and  all  around 
Nature's  unchanging  harmony. 


III. 

Fairy  !  the  Spirit  said. 
And  on  the  dueen  of  Spells 
Fixed  her  ethereal  eyes, 
I  thank  thee.     Thou'hast  given 
A  boon  which  I  will  not  resign,  and  taught 
A  lesson  not  to  be  unlearned.     I  know 
The  past,  and  thence  I  will  essay  to  glean 
A  warning  for  the  future,  .so  that  man 
May  profit  by  his  errors,  and  derive 

Experience  from  his  folly  : 
For,  when  the  power  of  imparting  joy 
Is  equal  to  the  will,  the  human  soul 
Hequires  no  other  heaven. 


Turn  thee,  surpassing  Spirit ! 
Much  yet  remains  unscanned. 
Thou  knowest  how  great  is  man, 
Thou  knowest  his  imbecility  : 
Yet  learn  thou  what  he  is  ; 
Yet  learn  the  lofty  destiny 
Which  restless  Time  prepares 
For  every  living  soul. 


QUEEN    MAB.  183 

Behold  a  gorgeous  palace,  that  amid 

Yon  populous  city  rears  its  thousand  towers 

And  seems  itself  a  city.     Gloomy  troops 

Of  sentinels,  in  stern  and  silent  ranks, 

Encompass  it  around  :  the  dweller  there 

Can  not  be  free  and  happy  ;  hearest  thou  not 

The  curses  of  the  fatherless,  the  groans 

Of  those  w^ho  have  no  friend  ?     He  passes  on  : 

The  king,  the  wearer  of  a  gilded  chain 

That  binds  his  soul  to  abjectuess,  the  fool 

Whom  courtiers  nickname  monarch,  -while  a  slave 

Even  to  the  basest  appetites  —  that  man 

Heeds  not  the  shriek  of  penury  ;  he  smiles 

At  the  deep  curses  which  the  destitute 

Mutter  in  secret,  and  a  sullen  joy 

Pervades  his  bloodless  heart  when  thousands  groan 

But  for  those  morsels  which  his  wantonness 

Wastes  in  unjoyous  revelry,  to  save 

All  that  they  love  from  famine  :  when  he  hears 

The  tale  of  horror,  to  some  ready-made  face 

Of  hypocritica'  assent  he  turns. 

Smothering  the  glow  of  shame,  that  spite  of  him 

Flushes  his  bloated  cheek. 

Now  to  the  meal 
Of  silence,  grandeur  and  excess,  he  drags 
His  palled  unwilling  appetite.     If  gold, 
Gleaming  around,  and  numerous  viands  culled 
From  every  clime,  could  force  the  loathing  sense 
To  overcome  satiety  —  if  wealth 
The  spring  it  draws  from  poisons  not  —  or  vice 
Unfeeling,  stubborn  vice,  converteth  not 
Its  food  to  deadliest  venom  —  then  that  king 
Is  happy  ;  and  the  peasant  who  fulfills 
His  unforced  task,  when  he  returns  at  even, 
And  by  the  blazing  fa.L'got  meets  again 
Her  welcome  for  whom  all  his  toil  is  sped, 
Tastes  not  a  sweeter  meal. 

Behold  him  now 
Stretched  on  the  gorgeous  couch  ;  his  fevered  brain 
Reels  dizzily  awhile  ;  but  ah  !  too  soon 
The  slumber  of  intemperance  subsides. 
And  conscience,  that  undying  serpent,  calls 
Her  venomous  brood  to  their  nocturnal  task. 
Listen  !  he  speaks  !  —  oh  !  mark  that  phrensied  eye  — 
Oh !  mark  that  deadly  visage  ! 

KING. 

No  cessation ! 
Oh  !  must  this  la,st  for  ever  ?    Awful  Death, 
I  wish,  yet  fear  to  clasp  thee  !  —  Not  one  moment 
Of  dreamless  sleep  !    O  dear  and  blessed  Peace  ! 


184 


QUEEN    MAB. 


Why  dost  thou  shroud  thy  vestal  purity 
In  penury  and  dungeons  ?  wherefore  lurk'st 
^Vith  danger,  death  and  soHtude,  yet  shunn'st 
The  palace  I  have  built  thee  ?    Sacred  Peace ! 
Oh  visit  me  but  once,  but  pitying  shed 
One  drop  of  balm  upon  my  withered  soul. 

Vain  man  !  that  palace  is  the  virtuous  heart, 

And  Peace  defileth  not  her  snowy  robes 

In  such  a  shed  as  thine.     Hark  !  yet  he  mutters  ; 

His  slumbers  are  but  varied  agonies. 

They  prey  like  scorpions  on  the  springs  of  life. 

There  needeth  not  the  hell  that  bigots  frame 

To  punish  those  who  err :  earth  in  itself 

Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure  ; 

And  all-sufficing  Nature  can  chastise 

Those  who  transgress  her  law  —  she  only  knows 

How  justly  to  proportion  to  the  fault 

The  punishment  it  merits. 

Is  it  strange 
That  this  poor  wretch  should  pride  him  in  his  woe  ? 
Take  pleasure  in  his  abjectuess,  and  hug 
The  scorpion  that  consumes  him  ?      Is  it  strange 
That  placed  on  a  conspicuous  throne  of  thorns, 
Grasping  an  iron  sceptre,  and  immured 
Within  a  splendid  prisou,  whose  stern  bounds 
Shut  him  from  all  that's  good  qv  dear  on  earth, 
His  soul  asserts  not  its  humanity  ? 
That  man's  mild  nature  rises  not  in  war 
Against  a  king's  employ  ?    No  —  'tis  not  strange. 
He,  like  the  vulgar,  thinks,  feels,  acts  and  lives 
Just  as  his  father  did  ;  the  unconqaered  powers 
Of  precedent  and  custom  interpose 
Between  a  king'  and  virtue.     Stranger  yet, 
To  those  who  know  not  nature,  nor  deduce 
The  future  from  the  present,  it  may  seem 
That  not  one  .slave  who  suffers  froni  the  crimes 
Of  this  unnatural  being  —  not  one  wretch 
Whose  children  famish  and  whose  nuptial  bed 
Is  earth's  unpitying  bo.som  —  rears  an  arm 
To  dash  him  from  his  throne  ! 

Those  gilded  flies 
That,  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  a  court. 
Fatten  on  its  corruption  !  —  what  are  they  ? 
—  The  drones  of  the  community  ;  they  feed 
On  the  mechanic's  labor :  the  starved  hind 
For  them  compels  the  stubborn  glebe  to  yield 
Its  unshared  harvests ;  and  yon  squalid  form, 
Leaner  than  fleshle.'is  misery,  that  wastes 
A  sunless  life  in  the  unw^holesome  mine. 
Drags  out  in  labor  a  protrafted  death, 


QUEEN    MAB.  185 

To  glut  their  grandeur  ;  many  faint  with  toil, 
That  few  may  know  the  cares  and  woe  of  sloth. 

Whence,  thinkest  thou,  kings  and  parasites  arose  ? 

Whence  that  unnatural  line  of  drones,  who  heap 

Toil  and  unvanquishable  penury 

On  those  who  build  their  palaces,  and  bring 

Their  daily  bread  ?  —  From  vice,  black  loathsome  vice, 

From  rapine,  madness,  treacherj'  and  wrong ; 

From  all  that  genders  misery,  and  makes 

Of  earth  this  thorny  wilderness  ;  from  lust. 

Revenge  and  murder.     And  when  reason's  voice, 

Loud  as  the  voice  of  nature,  shall  have  w^aked 

The  nations,  and  mankind  perceive  that  vice 

Is  discord,  war  and  miseiy  ;  that  virtue 

Is  peace  and  happiness  and  harmony  — 

When  man's  maturer  nature  shall  disdain 

The  playthings  of  its  childhood  —  kingly  glare 

Will  lose  its  power  to  dazzle  ;  its  authority 

W^ill  silently  pass  by  ;  the  gorgeous  throne 

Shall  stand  unnoticed  in  the  regal  hall, 

Fast  falling  to  decay  ;  while  falsehood's  trade 

Shall  be  as  hateful  and  unprofitable 

As  that  of  truth  is  now. 

Where  is  the  fame 
Which  the  vain-glorious  mighty  of  the  earth 
Seek  to  eternize  ?     Oh  !  the  faintest  sound 
From  time's  light  footfall,  the  minutest  vv^ave 
That  swells  the  flood  of  ages,  whelms  in  nothing 
The  unsubstantial  bubble.     Ay!  to-day 
Stern  is  the  tyrant's  mandate,  red  the  gaze 
That  flashes  desolation,  strong  the  arm 
That  scatters  multitudes.     To  morrow  comes  ! 
That  mandate  is  a  thunder-peal  that  died 
In  ages  past ;  that  gaze,  a  transient  fla.sh 
On  which  the  midnight  closed ;  and  on  that  arm 
The  worm  has  made  his  meal. 

The  virtuous  man. 
Who,  great  in  his  humility,  as  kings 
Are  little  in  their  grandeur  —  he  who  leads 
Invincibly  a  life  of  resolute  good, 
And  stands  amid  the  silent  dungeon-depths 
More  free  and  iearless  than  the  trembling  judge 
Who,  clothed  in  venal  povv^er,  vainly  .strove 
To  bind  the  impassive  spirit  —  when  he  falls. 
His  mild  eye  beams  benevolence  no  more  : 
Withered  the  hand  outstretched  but  to  relieve  : 
Sunk  reason's  simple  eloquence,  that  rolled 
But  to  appall  the  guilty.     Yes  !  the  grave 
Hath  quenched  that  eye,  and  death's  relentless  frost 
Withered  that  ai'm  :  but  the  unfading  fame 


186  QUEEN    MAB. 

"Which  Virtue  hangs  upon  its  votary's  tomb  — 
The  deathless  memory  of  that  man,  whom  kings 
Call  to  their  mind  and  tremble  —  the  remembrance 
W^ith  which  the  happy  spirit  contemplates 
Its  well-spent  pilgrimage  on  earth  — 
Shall  never  pass  away. 

Nature  rejects  the  monarch,  not  the  man ; 
The  subject,  not  the  citizen  :  for  kings 
And  subjects,  mutual  foes,  for  ever  play 
A  losing  game  into  each  other's  hands, 
Whose  stakes  are  vice  and  misery.     The  man 
Of  virtuous  soul  commands  not,  nor  obeys. 
Power,  like  a  desolating  pestilence. 
Pollutes  whate'er  it  touches  ;  and  obedience, 
Bane  of  all  genius,  virtue,  freedom,  truth. 
Makes  slaves  of  men,  and  of  the  human  frame 
A  mechanized  automaton. 

When  Nero, 
High  over  flaming  Rome,  with  savage  joy 
Lowered  like  a  fiend,  drank  with  enraptured  ear 
The  shrieks  of  agonizing  death,  beheld 
The  frightful  desolation  spread,  and  felt 
A  new  created  sense  within  his  soul 
Thrill  to  the  sight,  and  vibrate  to  the  sound  — 
Thiukest  thou  his  grandeur  had  not  overcome 
The  force  of  human  kindness  ?  and  when  Rome, 
With  one  stern  blow,  hurled  not  the  tyrant  down, 
Crushed  not  the  arm  red  with  her  dearest  blood  — 
Had  not  submissive  abjectness  destroyed 
Nature's  suggestions  ? 

Look  on  yonder  earth  : 
The  golden  harvests  spring  ;  the  unfailing  sun 
Sheds  light  and  life  ;  the  fruits,  the  flowers,  the  trees, 
Arise  in  due  succession  ;  all  things  speak 
Peace,  harmony  and  love.     The  universe, 
In  Nature's  silent  eloquence,  declares 
That  all  fulfill  the  works  of  love  and  joy  — 
All  but  the  outcast,  man.     He  fabricates 
The  sword  which  stabs  his  peace  ;  he  cherisheth 
The  snakes  that  gnaw  his  heart ;  he  raiseth  up 
The  tyrant  whose  delight  is  in  his  woe  — 
Whose  sport  is  in  his  agony.     Yon  sun, 
Lights  it  the  great  alone  ?    Yon  .silver  beams. 
Sleep  they  less  sweetly  on  the  cottage  thatch 
Than  on  the  dome  of  kings  ?     Is  mother  Earth 
A  step-dame  to  her  numerous  sons  who  earn 
Her  unshared  gifts  with  unremitting  toil  — 
A  mother  only  to  those  puling  babes 
Who,  nursed  in  ea.se  and  luxury,  make  men 
The  playthings  of  their  babyhood,  and  mar 


QUEEN    MAB.  187 

In  self-important  childishness  that  peace 
Which  men  alone  appreciate  ? 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  no  ! 
The  pure  diffusion  of  thy  essence  throhs 
Alike  in  every  human  heart. 

Thou  aye  erectest  there 
Thy  throne  of  power  unappealable  : 
Thou  art  the  judge  beneath  whose  nod 
Man's  brief  and  frail  authority 
Is  powerless  as  the  wind 
That  passeth  idly  by. 
Thine  the  tribunal  which  surpasseth 
The  shoAv  of  human  justice, 
As  God  surpasses  man. 
Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou 
Life  of  interminable  multitudes  ; 
Soul  of  those  mighty  spheres 
Whose  changeless  paths  through  heaven's  deep  silence  lie ; 
Soul  of  that  smallest  being, 

The  dwelling  of  whose  life 
Is  one  faint  April  sun  gleam  — 
Man,  like  these  passive  things, 
Thy  will  unconsciously  fulfilleth  : 
Like  theirs,  his  age  of  endless  peace, 
Which  time  is  fast  maturing, 
Will  swiftly,  surely  come  ; 
And  the  unbounded  frame,  which  thou  pervadest, 
Will  be  without  a  Haw 
Marring  its  perfect  symmetry. 


IV. 

How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh 

Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear, 

Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 

That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon  vault, 

Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright. 

Through  w^hich  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur  rolls. 

Seems  like  a  canopy  which  Love  has  spread 

To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills, 

Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow^ ; 

Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend. 

So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 

Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam  ;  yon  castled  .steep. 

Whose  banner  hangetli  o'er  the  timeworn  tower 

So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  deeineth  it 

A  metaphor  of  peace  :  all  form  a  scene 


188  QUEEN    MAB. 

Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliiiess ; 
Where  sileiice  undisturbed  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

The  orb  of  day, 
In  southern  climes,  o'er  ocean's  waveless  field 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling  ;  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep  ;  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day  ; 
And  vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes  : 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
Roll  o'er  the  blackened  waters ;  the  deep  roar 
Of  di-stant  thunder  mutters  awfully  ; 
Tempest  unfold.s  its  pinion  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge  ;  the  pitiless  fiends 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks  his  prey  ; 
The  torn  deep  yawns  —  the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulf. 

Ah  !  whence  yon  glare 
That  fires  the  arch  of  heaven  ?  —  that  dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon  ?     The  stars  are  quenched 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling  snow^ 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  that  gathers  round  ! 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deafening  peals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains  ring, 
Startling  pale  Midnight  on  her  starry  throne  ! 
Now^  swells  the  intermingling  din  ;  the  jar 
Frequent  and  frightful  of  the  bursting  bomb  ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout, 
The  ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage  :  loud  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows  —  till  pale  Death  shuts  the  scene. 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud. —  Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health  —  of  all  the  hearts 
That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there  — 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now  ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause  ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widowed  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapped  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gi-ay  mom 
Dawns  on  the  mournful  scene  ;  the  sulphurous  smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away. 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.     Thei-e  tracks  of  blood 


QUEEN     MAB.  189 

Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered  arms, 

And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  Hneaments 

Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful  path 

Of  the  outsallying  victors  :  far  behind, 

Black  ashes  note  w^here  their  proud  city  stood. 

Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen  — 

Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day 

Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

I  see  thee  shrink, 
Surpassing  Spirit !  — wert  thou  human  else  ? 
I  see  a  shade  of  doubt  and  horror  fleet 
Across  thy  stainless  features  :  yet  fear  not ; 
This  is  no  unconnected  misery, 
Nor  stands  uncaused  and  irretrievable. 
Man's  evil  nature,  that  apology 

Which  kings  who  rule  and  cowards  who  crouch  set  up 
For  their  unnumbered  crimes,  sheds  not  the  blood 
Which  desolates  the  discord-wasted  land. 
From  kings  and  priests  and  statesmen  war  arose, 
Whose  safety  is  man's  deep  unbettered  woe, 
Whose  grandeur  his  debasement.     Let  the  ax 
Strike  at  the  root  —  the  poison-tree  will  fall ; 
And  where  its  venomed  exhalations  spread 
Ruin  and  death  and  woe  —  w^here  millions  lie 
duenching  the  serpent's  famine,  and  their  bones 
Bleaching  unburied  in  the  putrid  blast — 
A  garden  shall  arise,  in  loveliness 
Surpassing  fabled  Eden. 

Hath  Nature's  soul, 
That  formed  this  world  so  beautiful,  that  spread 
Earth's  lap  with  plenty,  and  life's  smallest  chord 
Strung  to  unchanging  unison,  that  gave 
The  happy  birds  their  dwelling  in  the  grove, 
That  yielded  to  the  wanderers  of  the  deep 
The  lovely  silence  of  the  unfathomed  main, 
And  filled  the  meanest  worm  that  crawls  in  dust 
With  spirit,  thought  and  love  —  on  man  alone. 
Partial  in  causeless  malice,  wantonly 
Heaped  ruin,  vice  and  slavery  ;  his  soul 
Blasted  with  withering  curses  ;  placed  afar 
The  meteor  happiness  that  shuns  his  grasp, 
But  serving  on  the  frightful  gulf  to  glare, 
Rent  wide  beneath  his  footsteps  ? 

Nature  ?  —  no  ! 
Kings,  priests  and  statesmen  blast  the  human  flower, 
Even  in  its  tender  bud  ;  their  influence  darta 
Like  subtle  poison  through  the  bloodless  veins 
Of  desolate  society.     The  child. 
Ere  he  can  lisp  his  mother's  sacred  name, 
Swells  w^ith  the  unnatural  pride  of  crime,  and  lifts 


190  QUEEN    MAB. 

His  baby-sword  even  in  a  hero's  mood. 

This  infant  arm  becomes  the  bloodiest  scourge 

Of  devastated  earth  ;  while  specious  names 

Learned  in  soft  childhood's  unsuspecting  hour, 

Serve  as  the  sophisms  with  which  manhood  dims 

Bright  reason's  ray,  and  sanctifies  the  sword 

Upraised  to  shed  a  brother's  innocent  blood. 

Let  priest-led  slaves  cease  to  proclaim  that  man 

Inherits  vice  and  misery,  when  force 

And  falsehood  hang  even  o'er  the  cradled  babe. 

Stifling  with  rudest  grasp  all  natural  good. 

Ah  !  to  the  stranger-soul,  when  first  it  peeps 
From  its  new  tenement,  and  looks  abroad 
For  happiness  and  sympathy,  how  stern 
And  desolate  a  tract  is  this  wide  world  ! 
How  withered  all  the  buds  of  natural  good  ! 
No  shade,  no  shelter  from  the  sweeping  storms 
Of  pitiless  power  !     On  its  wretched  frame, 
Poisoned  perchance  by  the  disease  and  woe 
Heaped  on  the  v^^retched  parent,  whence  it  sprung, 
By  morals,  law  and  custom,  the  pure  winds 
Of  heaven,  that  renovate  the  insect  tribes. 
May  breathe  not.     The  untainting  light  of  day 
May  visit  not  its  longings.     It  is  bound 
Ere  it  has  life  :  yea,  all  the  chains  are  forged 
Long  ere  its  being  ;  all  liberty  and  love 
And  peace  is  torn  from  its  defencelessness : 
Cursed  from  its  birth,  even  from  its  cradle  doomed 
To  abjectness  and  bondage  ! 

Throughout  this  varied  and  etenial  world 

Soul  is  the  only  element,  the  block 

That  for  uncounted  ages  has  remained. 

The  moveless  pillar  of  a  mountain's  weight 

Is  active  living  spirit.     Every  grain 

Is  sentient  both  in  unity  and  part, 

And  the  minutest  atom  comprehends 

A  world  of  loves  and  hatreds  ;  these  beget 

Evil  and  good  :  hence  truth  and  falsehood  spring ; 

Hence  will  and  thought  and  action,  all  the  germs 

Of  pain  or  pleasure,  sympathy  or  hate, 

That  variegate  the  eternal  universe. 

Soul  is  not  more  polluted  than  the  beams 

Of  heaven's  pure  orb,  ere  round  their  rapid  lines 

The  taint  of  earth-born  atmospheres  arise. 

Man  is  of  soul  and  body,  formed  for  deeds 
Of  high  resolve  ;  on  fancy's  boldest  wing 
To  soar  unwearied,  fearlessly  to  turn 
The  keenest  pangs  to  peacefulness,  and  taste 
The  joys  which  mingled  sense  and  spirit  yield. 
Or  he  is  formed  for  abjectness  and  woe, 


QUEEN    MAB.  191 

To  grovel  on  the  dunghill  of  his  fears, 
To  shrink  at  every  sound,  to  quench  the  flame 
Of  natural  love  in  sensualism,  to  know 
That  hour  as  blest  when  on  his  worthless  days 
The  frozen  hand  of  death  shall  set  its  seal, 
Yet  fear  the  cure,  though  hating  the  disease. 
The  one  is  man  that  shall  hereafter  be  : 
The  other,  man  as  vice  has  made  him  now. 

War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's  delight. 

The  lawyer's  jest,  the  hired  assassin's  trade. 

And,  to  those  royal  murderers  whose  mean  thrones 

Are  bought  by  crimes  of  treachery  and  gore, 

The  bread  they  eat,  the  staff  on  which  they  lean. 

Guards,  garbed  in  blood-red  livery,  surround 

Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 

That  force  defends,  and  from  a  nation's  rage 

Secure  the  crown,  which  all  the  curses  reach 

That  famine,  phrensy,  woe  and  penury  breathe. 

These  are  the  hired  bravoes  who  defend 

The  tyrant's  throne —  the  bullies  of  his  fear : 

These  are  the  sinks  and  channels  of  worst  vice, 

The  refuse  of  society,  the  dregs 

Of  all  that  is  most  vile  :  their  cold  hearts  blend 

Deceit  with  .sternness,  ignorance  with  pride, 

All  that  is  mean  and  villainous,  with  rage 

Which  hopelessness  of  good,  and  self  contempt, 

Alone  might  kindle  ;  they  are  decked  in  wealth. 

Honor  and  power,  then  are  .sent  abroad 

To  do  their  work.     The  pestilence  that  stalks 

In  gloomy  triumph  through  .some  eastern  land 

Is  less  destroying.     They  cajole  with  gold 

And  promises  of  fame,  the  tlioughtle.ss  youth 

Already  crushed  with  servitude  :  he  knows 

His  wretchedness  too  late,  and  cherishes 

Repentance  for  his  ruin,  when  his  doom 

Is  sealed  in  gold  and  blood  ! 

Those  too  the  tyrant  serve,  who,  skilled  to  snare 

The  feet  of  justice  in  the  toils  of  law. 

Stand  ready  to  oppress  the  weaker  .still ; 

And,  right  or  w^rong,  will  vindicate  for  gold, 

Sneering  at  public  virtue,  which  beneath 

Their  pitiless  tread  lies  torn  and  trampled,  where 

Honor  sits  smiling  at  the  sale  of  truth. 


These  tools  the  tyrant  tempers  to  his  work. 
Wields  in  his  wrath,  and  as  he  wills,  destroys, 
Omnipotent  in  wickedness  :  the  while 
Youth  springs,  age  moulders,  manhood  tamely  does 
His  bidding,  bribed  by  sliort-lived  joys  to  lend 
Force  to  the  weakness  of  his  trembling  arm. 


192  QUEEN    MAB. 

They  rise,  they  fall :  one  generation  comes 
Yielding  its  harvest  to  destruction's  sythe. 
It  fades  —  another  blossoms  :  yet  behold  ! 
Red  glows  the  tyrant's  stamp-mark  on  its  bloom, 
Withering  and  cankering  deep  its  passive  prime. 
He  has  invented  lying  words  and  modes 
Empty  and  vain  as  his  own  coreless  heart  ; 
Evasive  meanings,  nothings  of  much  sound. 
To  lure  the  heedless  victim  to  the  toils 
Spread  round  the  valley  of  its  paradise. 

Look  to  thyself,  priest,  conqueror  or  prince  ! 

Whether  thy  trade  is  falsehood,  and  thy  lusts 

Deep  wallow  in  the  earnings  of  the  poor, 

With  whom  thy  master  was :  or  thou  delight' st 

In  numbering  o'er  the  myriads  of  thy  slain, 

All  misery  weighing  nothing  in  the  scale 

Against  thy  short-lived  fame  :  or  thou  dost  load 

With  cowardice  and  crime  the  groaning  land. 

A  pomp-fed  king.     Look  to  thy  wretched  self! 

Aye,  art  thou  not  the  verie.st  slave  that  e'er 

Crawled  on  the  loathing  earth  ?     Are  not  thy  days 

Days  of  unsatisfying  listlessness  ? 

Dost  thou  not  cry,  ere  night's  long  rack  is  o'er, 

When  will  the  morning  come  ?     Is  not  thy  youth 

A  vain  and  feverish  dream  of  sensualism  ? 

Thy  manhood  blighted  with  unripe  disease  ? 

Are  not  thy  views  of  unregretted  death 

Drear,  comfortless  and  horrible  ?     Thy  mind. 

Is  it  not  morbid  as  thy  nerveless  frame. 

Incapable  of  judgement,  hope  or  love  ? 

And  dost  thou  w^ish  the  errors  to  survive 

That  bai*  thee  from  all  sympathies  of  good. 

After  the  miserable  interest 

Thou  hold'st  in  their  protraction  ?     When  the  grave 

Has  swallowed  up  thy  memoiy  and  thyself, 

Dost  thou  desire  the  bane  that  poisons  earth 

To  twine  its  roots  around  thy  coflfined  clay. 

Spring  from  thy  bones,  and  blossom  on  thy  tomb, 

That  of  its  fruits  thy  babes  may  eat  and  die  ? 


Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 
Qo  to  the  grave,  and  issue  from  the  womb, 
Surviving  still  the  imperishable  change 
That  renovates  the  world  ;  even  as  the  leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  waning  year 


QUEEN    MAB.  193 

Has  scattered  on  the  forest  soil,  and  heaped 

For  many  seasons  there,  though  long  they  choke, 

Loading  with  loathsome  rottenness  the  land, 

All  germs  of  promise.     Yet  when  the  tall  trees 

From  which  they  fell,  shorn  of  their  lovely  shapes, 

Lie  level  with  the  earth  to  moulder  there, 

They  fertilize  the  land  they  long  deformed, 

Till  from  the  breathing  law^n  a  forest  springs 

Of  youth,  integrity,  and  loveliness. 

Like  that  which  gave  it  life,  to  spring  and  die. 

Thus  suicidal  selfishness,  that  blights 

The  fairest  feelings  of  the  opening  heart. 

Is  destined  to  decay,  while  from  the  soil 

Shall  spring  all  virtue,  all  delight,  all  love. 

And  judgement  cease  to  wage  unnatural  war 

With  passion's  unsubduable  an-ay. 

Twin-sister  of  religion,  selfishness ! 

Rival  in  crime  and  falsehood,  aping  all 

The  wanton  horrors  of  her  bloody  play ; 

Yet  frozen,  unimpassioned,  spiritless. 

Shunning  the  light,  and  owning  not  its  name  : 

Compelled  by  its  deformity  to  screen 

With  flimsy  veil  of  justice  and  of  right 

Its  unattractive  lineaments,  that  scare 

All,  save  the  brood  of  ignorance  :  at  once 

The  cause  and  the  effect  of  tyranny  ; 

Unblushing,  hardened,  sensual  and  vile  ; 

Dead  to  all  love  but  of  its  abjectness. 

With  heart  impassive  by  more  noble  powers 

Than  unshared  pleasure,  sordid  gain,  or  fame ; 

Despising  its  owoi  miserable  bemg. 

Which  still  it  longs  yet  fears  to  disenthrall. 

Hence  commerce  springs,  the  venal  interchange 

Of  all  that  human  art  or  nature  yield  ; 

Which  wealth  should  purchase  not,  but  want  demand, 

And  natural  kindness  hasten  to  supply 

From  the  full  fountain  of  its  boundless  love, 

For  ever  stifled,  drained  and  tainted  now. 

Commerce !  beneath  whose  poison-breathing  shade 

No  solitary  virtue  dares  to  spring ; 

But  poverty  and  wealth  with  equal  hand 

Scatter  their  withering  curses,  and  unfold 

The  doors  of  premature  and  violent  death, 

To  pining  famine  and  full-fed  disease, 

To  all  that  shares  the  lot  of  human  life, 

Which,  poisoned  body  and  soul,  scai-ce  drags  the  chain 

That  lengthens  as  it  goes  and  clanks  behind. 

Commerce  has  set  the  mark  of  selfishness. 
The  signet  of  its  all-enslaving  power. 
Upon  a  shining  ore,  and  called  it  gold  : 
Before  whose  image  bow  the  vulgar  great, 
13 


194  QtUEEN:    JtAB. 

The  vainly  rich,  the  miserable  proud, 

The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests  and  kings. 

And  with  blind  feelings  reverence  the  power 

That  grinds  them  to  the  dust  of  misery. 

But  in  the  temple  of  their  hireling  hearts 

Gold  is  a  living  God,  and  rules  in  scom. 

All  earthly  things  but  viitue. 

Since  tyrants,  by  the  sale  of  human  life. 

Heap  luxuries  to  their  sensualism,,  and  fame 

To  their  wide- wasting  and  insatiate  pride, 

Success  has  sanctioned  to  a  credulous  world 

The  ruin,  the  disgrace,  the  woe  of  war. 

His  hosts  of  blind  and  unresisting  dupes 

The  despot  numbers  ;  from  his  cabinet 

These  puppets  of  his  schemes  he  moves  at  w^ill. 

Even  as  the  slaves  by  force  or  famine  driven 

Beneath  a  vulgar  master,  to  perform 

A  task  of  cold  and  brutal  drudgery  ; 

Hardened  to  hope,  insensible  to  fear, 

Scarce  living  pulleys  of  a  dead  machine. 

Mere  wheels  of  work  and  articles  of  trade. 

That  grace  the  proud  and  noisy  pomp  of  wealth  ! 

The  harmony  and  happiness  of  man 

Yield  to  the  wealth  of  nations  ;  that  which  lifts 

His  nature  to  the  heaven  of  its  pride 

Is  bartered  for  the  poison  of  his  soul ; 

The  weight  that  drags  to  earth  his  towering  hopes. 

Blighting  all  prospect  but  of  selfish  gain, 

Withering  all  passion  but  of  slavish  fear. 

Extinguishing  all  free  and  generous  love 

Of  enterprise  and  daring,  even  the  pulse 

That  fancy  kindles  in  the  beating  heart 

To  mingle  with  sensation,  it  destroys, 

Leaves  nothing  but  the  sordid  lust  of  self. 

The  groveling  hope  of  interest  and  gold. 

Unqualified,  umningled,  unredeemed 

Even  by  hypocrisy. 

And  statesmen  boast 
Of  wealth  !  the  wordy  eloquence  that  lives 
After  the  ruin  of  their  hearts,  can  gild 
The  bitter  poison  of  a  nation's  woe, 
Can  turn  the  worship  of  the  servile  mob 
To  their  corrupt  and  glaring  idol,  Fame, 
From  Virtue,  trampled  by  its  iron  tread, 
Although  its  dazzling  pedestal  be  raised 
Amid  the  horrors  of  a  limb-strown  field, 
With  desolated  dwellings  smoking  round. 
The  man  of  ease,  who,  by  his  warm  fireside, 
To  deeds  of  charitable  intercour.se 
And  bare  fulfilment  of  the  common  laws 


QUEEN    MAB.  195 

Of  decency  and  prejudice,  confines 

The  struggling  nature  of  Lis  human  heart, 

Is  duped  by  their  cold  sophistry  :  he  sheds 

A  passing  tear  perchance  upon  the  wreck 

Of  earthly  peace,  when  near  his  dwelling's  door 

The  frightful  waves  are  driven  —  when  his  son 

Is  murdered  by  the  tyrant,  or  religion 

Drives  his  wife  raving  mad.     But  the  poor  man, 

Whose  life  is  misery  and  fear  and  care  — 

Whom  the  morn  wakens  but  to  fruitless  toil  — 

Who  ever  hears  his  famished  offspring's  scream  — 

Whom  their  pale  mother's  uncomplaining  gaze 

For  ever  meets,  and  the  proud  rich  man's  eye 

Flashing  command,  and  the  heart-breaking  scene 

Of  thousands  Hke  himself — he  little  heeds 

The  rhetoric  of  tyranny  ;  his  hate 

Is  quenchless  as  his  wrongs  ;  he  laughs  to  scorn 

The  vain  and  bitter  mockery  of  words. 

Feeling  the  horror  of  the  tyrant's  deeds, 

And  unrestrained  but  by  the  arm  (^f  power, 

That  know^s  and  dreads  his  enmity. 

The  iron  rod  of  penuiy  still  compels 

Her  wretched  slave  to  bow  the  knee  to  wealth, 

And  poison,  with  unprofitable  toil, 

A  life  too  void  of  solace  to  confirm 

The  very  chains  that  bind  him  to  his  doom. 

Nature,  impartial  in  munificence. 

Has  gifted  man  with  all-subduing  will  : 

Matter,  with  all  its  transitory  shapes, 

Lies  subjected  and  plastic  at  his  feet. 

That,  weak  from  bondage,  tremble  as  they  tread. 

How  many  a  rustic  Milton  has  passed  by, 

Stifling  the  speechless  longings  of  his  heart, 

In  unremitting  drudgery  and  care  ! 

How  many  a  vulgar  Cato  has  compelled 

His  energies,  no  longer  tameless  then, 

To  mould  a  pin  or  fabricate  a  nail ! 

How  many  a  Newton,  to  whose  passive  ken 

Those  mighty  spheres  that  gem  infinity 

Were  only  specks  of  tinsel,  fixed  in  heaven 

To  light  the  midnights  of  his  native  town  ! 

Yet  every  heart  contains  perfection's  germ  : 
The  wisest  of  the  sages  of  the  earth, 
That  ever  from  the  stores  of  reason  drew 
Science  and  truth,  and  virtue's  dreadless  tone, 
Were  but  a  weak  and  inexperienced  boy. 
Proud,  sensual,  unimpassioned,  unembued 
With  pure  desire  and  universal  love. 
Compared  to  thai  high  being,  of  cloudless  brain, 
Untauited  passion,  elevated  will, 
Which  death  (who  even  would  linger  long  in  awe 


196  QUEEN    MAB. 

Within  his  noble  presence  and  beneath 
His  changeless  eyebeam)  might  alone  subdue. 
Him,  every  slave  now  dragging  through  the  filth 
Of  some  corrupted  city  his  sad  life, 
Pining  with  famine,  swollen  with  luxury, 
Blunting  the  keenness  of  his  spiritual  sense 
With  narrow  schemings  and  unworthy  cares, 
Or  madly  rushing  through  all  violent  crime, 
To  move  the  deep  stagnation  of  his  soul  — 
Might  imitate  and  equal. 

But  mean  lust 
Has  bound  its  chains  so  tight  around  the  earth 
That  all  within  it  but  the  virtuous  man 
Is  venal :  gold  or  fame  will  surely  reach 
The  price  prefixed  by  selfishness  to  all 
But  him  of  resolute  and  unchanging  will ; 
Whom,  nor  the  plaudits  of  a  servile  crowd, 
Nor  the  vile  joys  of  tainting  luxury, 
Can  bribe  to  yield  his  elevated  soul 
To  tyranny  or  falsehood,  though  they  wield 
With  blood-red  hand  the  sceptre  of  the  world. 

All  things  are  sold  :  the  very  light  of  heaven 

Is  venal ;  earth's  unsparing  gifts  of  love, 

The  smallest  and  most  despicable  things 

That  lurk  in  the  abysses  of  the  deep, 

All  objects  of  our  life,  even  life  itself, 

And  the  poor  pittance  which  the  laws  allow 

Of  Hberty,  the  fellowship  of  man, 

Those  duties  which  his  heart  of  human  love 

Should  urge  him  to  perform  instinctively, 

Are  bought  and  sold  as  in  a  public  mart 

Of  undisguisiug  selfishness,  that  sets 

On  each  its  price,  the  stamp-mark  of  her  reign. 

Even  love  is  sold  ;  the  solace  of  all  woe 

Is  turned  to  deadliest  agony,  old  age 

Shivers  in  selfish  beauty's  loathing  arms. 

And  youth's  corrupted  impulses  prepare 

A  life  of  hoiTor  from  the  blighting  bane 

Of  commerce  ;  while  the  pestilence  that  springs 

From  unenjoying  sensualism  has  filled 

All  human  life  with  hydra-headed  woes. 

Falsehood  demands  but  gold  to  pay  the  pangs 
Of  outraged  conscience ;  for  the  slavish  priest 
Sets  no  great  value  on  his  hireling  faith  : 
A  little  passing  pomp,  some  servile  souls, 
Whom  cowardice  itself  might  safely  chain, 
Or  the  spare  mite  of  avarice  could  bribe 
To  deck  the  triumph  of  their  languid  zeal, 
Can  make  him  minister  to  tyranny. 
More  daring  crime  requires  a  loftier  meed  ; 


QUEEN    MAB.  197 

Without  a  shudder,  the  slave-soldier  lends 
His  arm  to  murderous  deeds,  and  steels  his  heart, 
When  the  dread  eloquence  of  dying  men, 
Low  mingling  on  the  lonely  field  of  fame, 
Assails  that  nature  -whose  applause  he  sells 
For  the  gross  blessings  of  the  patriot  mob. 
For  the  vile  gratitude  of  heartless  kings. 
And  for  a  cold  world's  good  word  —  viler  still ! 

There  is  a  nobler  glory,  which  survives 

Until  our  being  fades,  and,  solacing 

All  human  care,  accompanies  its  change  ; 

Deserts  not  virtue  in  the  dungeon's  gloom, 

And  in  the  precincts  of  the  palace  guides 

Its  footsteps  through  that  labyrinth  of  crime 

Embues  his  lineaments  w^ith  dauntlessness, 

Even  when,  from  power's  avenging  hand,  he  takes 

Its  sweetest,  last  and  noblest  title  —  death  ; 

—  The  consciousness  of  good,  which  neither  gold 

Nor  sordid  fame  nor  hope  of  heavenly  bliss 

Can  purchase  ;  but  a  life  of  resolute  good, 

Unalterable  will,  quenchless  desire 

Of  universal  happiness,  the  heart 

That  beats  with  it  in  unison,  the  brain, 

Whose  ever-wakeful  wisdom  toils  to  change 

Reason's  rich  stores  for  its  eternal  weal. 

This  commerce  of  sincerest  virtue  needs 
No  mediative  signs  of  se]fi.shness, 
No  jealous  intercour.se  of  wretched  gain. 
No  balancings  of  prudence,  cold  and  long ; 
In  just  and  equal  measure  all  is  weighed, 
One  scale  contains  the  sum  of  human  weal. 
And  one,  the  good  man's  heart. 

How  vainly  seek 
The  selfish  for  that  happiness  denied 
To  aught  but  virtue  !     Blind  and  hardened,  they 
Who  hope  for  peace  amid  the  storms  of  care. 
Who  covet  power  they  know  not  how  to  u.se, 
And  sigh  for  pleasure  they  refuse  to  give  — 
Madly  they  frustrate  still  their  own  designs  ; 
And,  w^here  they  hope  that  quiet  to  enjoy 
Which  virtue  pictures,  bitterness  of  soul, 
Pining  regrets  and  vain  repentances. 
Disease,  disgust  and  lassitude,  pervade 
Their  valueless  and  miserable  lives. 

But  hoary-headed  selfishness  has  felt 
Its  death-blow,  and  is  tottering  to  the  grave : 
A  brighter  morn  awaits  the  human  day. 
When  every  transfer  of  eai-th's  natural  gifts 
Shall  be  a  commerce  of  good  words  and  works  ; 


198  QUEEN    MAB. 

When  poverty  and  wealth,  the  thirst  of  fame, 
The  fear  of  infamy,  disease  and  woe, 
War  w^ilh  its  million  horrors,  and  fierce  hell, 
Shall  live  but  in  the  memory  of  time, 
Who  like  a  penitent  libertine  shall  start, 
Look  back  and  shudder  at  his  younger  years. 


VI. 

All  touch,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
The  Spirit  felt  the  Fairy's  burning  speech. 

O'er  the  thin  texture  of  its  frame 
The  varying  periods  painted  changing  glows  : 

As  on  a  summer  even. 
When  soul-enfolding  music  floats  around, 
The  stainless  mirror  of  the  lake 
Reimages  the  eastern  gloom, 
Mingling  convulsively  its  purple  hues 
W^ith  sunset's  burnished  gold. 

Then  thus  the  Spirit  spoke  : 
It  is  a  wild  and  miserable  world  ! 
Thorny,  and  full  of  care, 
Which  every  fiend  can  make  his  prey  at  will. 
O  Fairy  !  in  the  lapse  of  years 
Is  there  no  hope  in  store  ? 
Will  yon  vast  suns  roll  on 
Interminably,  still  illuming 
The  night  of  so  many  wretched  souls, 
And  see  no  hope  for  them  ? 
Will  not  the  universal  Spirit  e'er 
Revivify  this  withered  limb  of  heaven  ? 

The  Fairy  calmly  smiled 
In  comfort,  and  a  kindhng  gleam  of  hope 

Suffused  the  Spirits  lineaments. 
Oh  !  rest  thee  tranquil ;  chase  tho.'^e  fearful  doubts, 
Which  ne'er  could  rack  an  everlasting  soul, 
That  sees  the  chains  which  bind  it  to  its  doom. 
Yes  !  crime  and  misery  are  in  yonder  earth. 

Falsehood,  mistake  and  lust; 

But  the  eternal  world 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure. 
Some  eminent  in  virtue  shall  start  up, 

Even  in  perversest  time  : 
The  truths  of  their  pure  lips,  that  never  die, 
Shall  bind  the  scorpion  falsehood  with  a  wreath 

Of  ever  living  flame. 
Until  tlie  monster  sting  it.self  to  death. 


QUEEN    MAB.  199 


How  sweet  a  scene  will  earth  become ! 
Of  purest  spirits,  a  pure  dwelling^-place, 
Symphonious  with  the  planetary  spheres  ; 
Wlien  man,  with  changless  nature  coalescing. 
Will  undertake  regeneration's  work, 
When  its  ungenial  poles  no  longer  point 
To  the  red  and  baleful  s"un 
That  faintly  twinkles  there. 

Spirit,  on  yonder  earth 
Falsehood  now  ti-iumphs;;  deadly  power 
Has  fixed  its  seal  upon  the  lip  of  truth  ! 

Madness  and  misery  are  there  ! 
The  happiest  is  most  wretched  !    Yet  confide 
Until  pure  health-drops  from  the  cup  of  joy 
Fall  like  a  dew  of  balm  upon  the  world! 


VII. 


VIII. 

The  present  and  the  past  thou  hast  beheld: 
It  was  a  desolate  sight.     Now,  Spirit,  leani 
The  secrets  of  the  future.  —  Time  ! 
Unfold  the  bi-ooding  pinion  of  thy  gloom, 
Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured  babes, 
And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity, 
Where  millions  lie  lulled  to  their  portioned  sleep 
By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  passing  things, 
Tear  thou  that  gloomy  shroud.  —  Spirit,  behold 
Thy  glorious  destiny ! 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came. 
Through  the  wide  rent  in  Time's  eternal  vail 
Hope  was  seen  beaming  through  the  mists  of  fear ; 

Earth  was  no  longer  hell ; 


200  QUEEN    MAB. 

Love,  freedom,  health,  had  given 
Their  ripeness  to  the  manhood  of  its  prime. 

And  all  its  pulses  beat 
Symphonious  to  the  planetary  spheres : 

Then  dulcet  music  swelled 
Concordant  w^ith  the  life-strings  of  the  soul; 
It  throbbed  in  sweet  and  languid  beathigs  there, 
Catching  new  life  from  transitory  death. — 
Like  the  vague  sighings  of  a  wind  at  even. 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumbering  sea. 
And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath, 
And  sinks  and  rises,  fails  and  swells  by  fits : 
Was  the  pure  stream  of  feeling 
That  sprung  from  these  sweet  notes. 
And  o'er  the  Spirit's  human  sympathies 
With  mild  and  gentle  motion  calmly  flowed. 

Joy  to  tlie  Spirit  came  — 
Such  joy  as  when  a  lover  sees 
The  chosen  of  his  .soul  in  happiness. 

And  witnesses  her  peace 
Whose  woe  to  him  were  bitterer  than  death  ; 

Sees  her  unfaded  cheek 
Glow  mantling  in  first  luxury  of  health, 

Thrills  with  her  lovely  eyes, 
Which  like  two  stars  amid  the  heaving  main 

Sparkle  through  liquid  bliss. 

Then  in  her  triumph  spoke  the  Fairy  Queen  ? 
I  will  not  call  the  ghost  of  ages  gone 
To  unfold  the  frightful  secrets  of  its  lore  ; 

The  present  now  is  past, 
And  those  events  that  desolate  the  earth 
Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  Time, 
Who  dares  not  give  reality  to  that 
Whose  being  I  annul.     To  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  tlie  human  world  to  keep. 
Space,  matter,  time  and  mind.     Futurity 
Exposes  now  its  treasure  ;  let  tlie  sight 
Renew  and  strengthen  all  thy  failing  hope. 
O  human  Spirit  I  spur  thee  to  the  goal 
Where  virtue  fixes  universal  peace. 
And,  mid  the  ebb  and  flow  of  human  things, 
Show  somewhat  stable,  somewhat  certain  still, 
A  lighthouse  o'er  the  wild  of  dreary  wavefi. 

The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss ; 
Those  wastes  of  frozen  billows  that  were  hurled 
By  everlasting  snow-storms  round  the  poles, 
Where  matter  dared  not  vegetate  nor  live, 
But  ceaseless  frost  round  the  vast  solitude 
Bound  its  broad  zone  of  .stillness,  are  unloosed  ; 
And  fragrant  zephyrs  there  from  spicy  isles 


"*      QUEEN    MAB.  201 

Ruffle  the  placid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 
Its  broad,  bright  surges  to  the  sloping  sand, 
Whose  roar  is  wakened  into  echoings  sweet 
To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breathing  groves, 
And  melodize  with  man's  blest  nature  there. 

Those  deserts  of  immeasurable  sand, 

Whose  age-collected  fervors  scarce  allowed 

A  bird  to  hve,  a  blade  of  grass  to  spring, 

W^here  the  shrill  chirp  of  the  green  lizard's  love 

Broke  on  the  sultry  silentness  alone, 

Now  teem  with  countless  rills  and  shady  woods, 

Cornfields  and  pastures  and  white  cottages  ; 

And  where  the  startled  wilderness  beheld 

A  savage  conqueror  stained  in  kindred  blood, 

A  tigress  sating  with  the  flesh  of  lambs 

The  unnatural  famine  of  her  toothless  cubs, 

While  shouts  and  bowlings  through  the  desert  rang : 

Sloping  and  smooth  the  daisy-spangled  lawn, 

Offering  sweet  incense  to  the  sunrise,  smiles 

To  see  a  babe  before  his  mother's  door, 

Sharing  his  morning's  meal 
With  the  green  and  golden  basilisk 

That  comes  to  lick  his  feet. 

Those  trackless  deeps,  where  many  a  weary  sail 

Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain 

Morning  on  night  and  night  on  morning  rise. 

While  still  no  land  to  greet  the  wanderer  spread 

Its  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sun-bright  sea, 

Where  the  loud  roarings  of  the  tempest-waves 

So  long  have  mingled  with  the  gusty  wind 

In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept 

The  desert  of  tho.se  ocean  .solitudes, 

But  vocal  to  the  sea  bird's  harrowing  shriek, 

The  bellowing  monster,  and  the  rushing  storm  ; 

Now  to  the  .sweet  and  many  mingling  sounds 

Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond. 

Tho.se  lonely  realms  bright  garden-isles  begem, 

With  lightsome  clouds  and  shining  .seas  between, 

And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss, 

While  green  w^oods  overcanopy  the  wave. 

Which  like  a  toil-woni  laborer  leaps  to  shore, 

To  meet  the  ki.sses  of  the  flowerets  there. 

All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life: 
The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  .suck 
To  myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her  care, 
Rewarding  her  with  their  pure  pertbctness  : 
The  balmy  breathings  of  the  wind  inhale 
Her  virtues,  and  ditlu.se  them  all  abroad  : 
Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  utmo.sphere, 


202  QUEEN    MAB. 

Glows  in  the  fruits,  and  mantles  on  the  stream : 
No  storms  deform  the  beaming  brow  of  heaven. 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  ever- verdant  trees  ; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe.,  flowers  ever  fair, 
And  autumn  proudly  bears  her  matron  grace, 
Kindling  a  flush  on  the  fair  cheek  of  spring, 
Whose  virgin  bloom  beneath  the  ruddy  fruit 
Reflects  its  tint,  and  blushes  into  love. 

The  lion  now  forgets  to  thirst  for  blood  : 

There  might  you  see  him  sporting  in  the  sun 

Beside  the  dreadless  kid  ;  his  claws  are  sheathed, 

His  teeth  are  harmless  —  custom's  force  has  made 

His  nature  as  the  nature  of  a  lamb. 

Like  passion's  fruit,  the  nightshade's  tempting  bane 

Poisons  no  more  the  pleasure  it  bestows  : 

All  bitterness  is  past :  the  cup  of  joy 

Unmingled  mantles  to  the  goblet's  brim. 

And  couils  the  thirsty  lips  it  fled  before. 

But  chief,  ambiguous  man  —  he  that  can  know 

More  misery  and  dream  more  joy  than  all  — 

Whose  keen  sensations  thrill  within  his  breast 

To  mingle  w^ith  a  loftier  instinct  there, 

Lending  their  power  to  pleasure  and  to  pain. 

Yet  raising,  sharpening  and  refining  each  — 

Who  stands  amid  the  ever-varying  world. 

The  burden  or  the  glory  of  the  earth  — 

He  chief  perceives  the  change  ;  his  being  notes 

The  gradual  renovation,  and  defines 

Each  movement  of  its  progress  on  his  mind. 

Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar  night 

Lowers  o'er  the  snow  clad  rocks  and  frozen  soil. 

Where  scarce  the  hardiest  herb  that  braves  the  frost 

Basks  in  the  moonlight's  ineftectual  glow, 

Shrank  with  the  plants,  and  darkened  with  the  night ; 

His  chilled  and  narrow  energies,  his  heart. 

Insensible  to  courage,  truth  or  love. 

His  stunted  stature  and  imbecile  frame. 

Marked  him  for  some  abortion  of  the  earth, 

Fit  compeer  of  the  bears  that  roamed  around, 

Whose  habits  and  enjoyments  \vere  his  own  : 

His  life  a  feverish  dream  of  stagnant  woe. 

Whose  meager  w^ants,  but  scantily  fulfilled. 

Apprised  him  ever  of  the  joyless  length 

Which  his  short  being's  wretchedness  had  reached  ; 

His  death  a  pang  which  famine,  cold  and  toil, 

Long  on  the  mind,  while  yet  the  vital  spark 

Clung  to  the  body  stubbornly,  had  brought : 

All  was  inflicted  here  that  earth's  revenge 

Could  wreak  on  the  infringers  of  her  law. 


QUEEN    MAB.  203 

Nor,  where  the  tropics  bound  the  realms  of  day 

With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and  Hame  — 

Where  blue  mists  through  the  unmoving  atmosphere 

Scattered  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  and  fed 

Unnatural  vegetation  —  where  the  land 

Teemed  with  all  earthquake,  tempest  and  disease  — 

Was  man  a  nobler  being  ;  slavery 

Had  crushed  him  to  his  country's  blood-stained  dust ; 

Or  he  was  bartered  for  the  fame  of  power, 

Which,  all  internal  impulses  destroying. 

Makes  human  will  an  article  of  trade ; 

Or  he  was  changed  with  Christians  for  their  gold, 

And  dragged  to  distant  isles,  where  to  the  sound 

Of  the  tlesh  mangling  scourge,  he  does  tJie  work 

Of  all-polluting  luxury  and  wealth. 

Which  doubly  visits  on  the  tyrants'  heads 

The  long-protracted  fullness  of  their  woe  ; 

Or  he  was  led  to  legal  butchery, 

To  turn  to  worms  beneath  that  burning  sun 

Where  kings  first  leagued  against  the  rights  of  men, 

And  priests  first  traded  with  the  name  of  God. 

Even  where  the  milder  zone  afforded  man 

A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there. 

Blighting  his  being  with  unnumbered  ills, 

Spread  like  a  quenchless  fire  ;  nor  truth  till  late 

Availed  to  arrest  its  progress,  or  create 

That  peace  which  first  in  bloodless  victory  waved. 

Her  snowy  standard  o'er  this  favored  clime  : 

There  man  w^as  long  the  train-bearer  of  slaves, 

The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery, 

The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage, 

The  bloodhound  of  religion's  hungry  zeal. 

Here  now  the  human  being  stands  adoring 

This  loveliest  earth  with  taintless  body  and  mind  ; 

Blest  from  his  birth  w^ith  all  bland  impulses, 

Which  gently  in  his  noble  bo.som  wake 

All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 

Him,  still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pursuing, 

W'hich  from  the  exhaustless  store  of  human  weal 

Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind,  the  thoughts  that  rise 

In  time-destroying  infiniteness,  gift 

With  self-enshrined  eternity,  that  mocks 

The  unprevailing  hoariness  of  age, 

And  man,  once  fleeting  o'er  the  transient  scene 

Swift  as  an  unremembered  vision,  stands 

Inmaortal  upon  earth  :  no  longer  now 

He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face. 

And  horribly  devours  his  mangled  Hesh. 

Which,  still  avenging  nature's  broken  law, 

Kindled  all  putrid  humors  in  his  fnun*!. 

All  evil  pa.ssioi.s,  and  all  vain  belief, 


204  QUEEN    MAB. 

Hatred,  despair,  and  loathing  in  his  mind, 

The  germs  of  misery,  death,  disease  and  crime. 

No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants 

That  in  the  -woods  their  sw^eet  lives  sing  away, 

Flee  from  the  form  of  man  ;  but  gather  round 

And  prune  their  sunny  feathers  on  the  hands 

Which  little  children  stretch  in  friendly  sport 

Toward  these  dreadless  partners  of  their  play. 

All  things  are  void  of  terror :  man  has  lost 

His  terrible  prerogative,  and  stands 

An  equal  amid  equals  :  happiness 

And  science  dawn,  though  late,  upon  the  earth  ; 

Peace  cheers  the  mind,  health  renovates  the  frame  ; 

Disease  and  pleasure  cease  to  mingle  here, 

Reason  and  passion  cease  to  combat  there  ; 

While  each  unfettered  o'er  the  earth  extends 

Its  all-subduing  energies,  and  wields 

The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there  ; 

While  every  shape  and  mode  of  matter  lends 

Its  force  to  the  omnipotence  of  mind. 

Which  from  its  dark  mine  drags  the  gem  of  truth 

To  decorate  its  paradise  of  peace. 


IX. 

O  HAPPY  Earth!  reality  of  Heaven  ! 
To  which  those  restless  souls  that  ceaselessly 
Throng  through  the  human  universe,  aspire  ; 
Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope  ! 
Thou  glorious  prize  of  blindly -w^orking  will ! 
W^hose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space  and  time, 
Verge  to  one  point  and  blend  for  ever  there  : 
Of  purest  spirits  thou  pure  dwelling-place  ! 
Where  care  and  sorrow,  impotence  and  crime. 
Languor,  disease  and  ignorance,  dare  not  come  : 
O  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

Genius  has  seen  thee  in  her  passionate  dreams ; 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thy  loveliness, 
Haunting  the  human  heart,  have  there  entwined 
Those  rooted  hopes  of  some  sweet  place  of  bliss, 
Where  friends  and  lovers  meet  to  part  no  more. 
Thou  art  the  end  of  all  desire  and  will, 
The  product  of  all  action ;  and  the  souls 
That  by  the  paths  of  an  aspiring  change 
Have  reached  thy  haven  of  perpetual  peace, 
There  rest  from  the  eternity  of  toil 
That  framed  the  fabric  of  thy  perfectuess. 


QUEEN    MAB.  205 

Even  Time,  the  conqueror,  fled  thee  in  his  fear  ; 

That  hoary  giant,  who  in  lonely  pride 

So  long-  had  ruled  the  world  that  nations  fell 

Beneath  his  silent  footstep.     Pyramids, 

That  for  millenniums  had  withstood  the  tide 

Of  human  things,  his  storm-breath  drove  in  sand 

Across  that  desert  where  their  stones  survived 

The  name  of  him  whose  pride  had  heaped  them  there. 

Yon  monarch  in  his  solitary  pomp 

Was  but  the  mushroom  of  a  summer  day, 

That  his  light- w^inged  footstep  pressed  to  dust : 

Time  was  the  king  of  earth  :  all  things  gave  way 

Before  him,  but  the  fixed  and  virtuous  will, 

The  sacred  sympathies  of  soul  and  sense, 

That  mocked  his  fury  and  prepared  his  fall. 

Yet  slow  and  gradual  dawned  the  morn  of  love  ; 
Long  lay  the  clouds  of  darkness  o'er  the  scene, 
Till  from  its  native  heaven  they  rolled  away : 
First,  crime  triumphant  o'er  all  hope  careered 
Unblushing,  undisguising.  bold  and  strong ; 
While  falsehood,  tricked  in  virtue's  attributes, 
Long  sanctified  all  deeds  of  vice  and  woe. 
Till,  done  by  her  own  venomous  sting  to  death, 
She  left  the  moral  w^orld  "without  a  law. 
No  longer  fettering  passion's  fearless  wing. 
Then  steadily  the  happy  ferment  worked  , 
Reason  vi^as  free;  and  wild  though  passion  went 
Through  tangled  glens  and  wood  embosomed  meads. 
Gathering  a  garland  of  the  strangest  fiowers. 
Yet,  like  the  bee,  returning  to  her  queen, 
She  bound  the  sweetest  on  her  sister's  brow, 
Who  meek  and  sober,  kisi^ed  the  sportive  child, 
No  longer  trembling  at  the  broken  rod. 

Mild  was  the  .slow  necessity  of  death  ; 
The  tranquil  Spirit  failed  beneath  its  grasp 
Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear, 
Calm  as  a  voyager  to  some  distant  land, 
And  full  of  v^'onder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 
The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  di.sease 
Died  in  tlie  human  frame,  and  purity- 
Blest  with  all  gifts  her  earthly  worshipers. 
How  vigorous  then  the  athletic  form  of  age  ! 
How^  clear  its  open  and  unwrinkled  brow ! 
Where  neither  avarice,  cunning,  pride  nor  care, 
Had  stamped  the  seal  of  giay  deformity 
On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time. 
How  lovely  the  intrepid  front  of  youth  ! 
Which  meek  eyed  courage  decked  with  freshest  grace  ; 
Courage  of  soul,  that  dreaded  not  a  name, 
And  elevated  will,  that  journeyed  on 
Through  life's  phantasmal  scene  in  fearlessness. 
With  virtue,  love  and  pleasure,  hand  in  hand. 


206  QUEEN    MAB. 

Then,  that  sweet  bondage  which  is  freedom's  self, 

And  rivets  with  sensation's  softest  tie 

The  kindred  sympathies  of  human  souls, 

Needed  no  fetters  of  tyrannic  law^. 

Those  delicate  and  timid  impulses 

In  nature's  primal  modesty  arose, 

And  with  undoubting  confidence  disclosed 

The  growing  longings  of  its  dawning  love, 

Unchecked  by  dull  and  selfish  chastity, 

That  virtue  of  the  cheaply  virtuous, 

"Who  pride  themselves  in  senselessness  and  frost. 

No  longer  prostitution's  venomed  bane 

Poisoned  the  springs  of  happiness  and  life  ; 

Woman  and  man,  in  confidence  and  love, 

Equal  and  free  and  pure,  together  trod 

The  mountain-paths  of  virtue,  which  no  more 

Were  stained  with  blood  from  many  a  pilgrim's  feet. 

Then  where  through  distant  ages,  long  in  pride 

The  palace  of  the  monarch-slave  had  mocked 

Famine's  faint  groan  and  penury's  silent  tear. 

A  heap  of  crumbling  ruins  stood,  and  threw 

Year  after  year  their  stones  upon  the  field. 

Wakening  a  lonely  echo  ;  and  the  leaves 

Of  the  old  thorn,  that  on  the  topmost  tower 

Usurped  the  royal  ensign's  grandeur,  shook 

In  the  stem  storm  that  swayed  the  topmost  tower. 

And  whispered  strange  tales  in  the  whirlwind's  ear. 

Low  through  the  lone  cathedral's  roofless  aisles 

The  melancholy  winds  a  death-dirge  sung : 

It  were  a  sight  of  awfulness  to  see 

The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast, 

So  sumptuous,  yet  so  perishing  withal ! 

Even  as  the  corpse  that  rests  beneath  its  wall. 

A  thousand  mourners  deck  the  pomp  of  death 

To-day,  the  breathing  marble  glows  above 

To  decorate  its  memoiy,  and  tongues 

Are  busy  of  its  life  :  to-morrow,  worms 

In  silence  and  in  darkness  seize  their  prey. 

Within  the  massy  prison's  mouldering  courts, 
Fearless  and  free  the  ruddy  children  played. 
Weaving  gay  chaplets  for  their  innocent  brows 
With  the  green  ivy  and  the  red  wall-flower, 
That  mock  the  dungeon's  unavailing  gloom  ; 
The  ponderous  chains  and  gratings  of  strong  iron, 
There  rusted  amid  heaps  of  broken  stone. 
That  mingled  slowly  with  their  native  earth  : 
There  the  broad  beam  of  day,  which  feebly  once 
Lighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 
With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  then  freely  shone 
On  the  pure  smiles  of  infant  playfulness  : 
No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse  despair 


QUEEN    MAB.  207 

Pealed  through  the  echoing  vaults,  but  soothing  notes 

Of  ivy-fingered  winds  and  gladsome  birds 

And  merriment  were  resonant  around. 

These  ruins  soon  left  not  a  wreck  behind  : 

Their  elements,  wide  scattered  o'er  the  globe, 

To  happier  shapes  were  moulded,  and  became 

Ministrant  to  all  blissful  impulses  : 

Thus  human  things  were  perfected,  and  earth, 

Even  as  a  child  beneath  its  mother's  love, 

W  aa  strengthened  in  all  excellence,  and  grew 

Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

Now  Time  his  dusky  pennons  o'er  the  scene 

Closes  in  steadfast  darkness,  and  the  past 

Fades  from  our  charmed  sight.     My  task  is  done : 

Thy  lore  is  learned.     Earth's  wonders  are  thine  own, 

With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  lK)pe  they  bring. 

My  spells  are  past:  the  present  now  recurs. 

Ah  me  !  a  pathless  wilderness  remains 

Yet  unsubued  by  man's  reclaiming  hand. 

Yet,  human  Spirit !  bravely  hold  thy  course, 

Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue 

The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change  : 

For  birth  and  life  and  death,  and  that  strange  state 

Before  the  naked  soul  has  found  its  home. 

All  tend  to  perfect  happiness,  and  iirge 

The  restless  wheels  of  being  on  their  way, 

Whose  flashing  spokes,  instinct  with  infinite  life, 

Bicker  and  burn  to  gain  their  destined  goal. 

For  birth  but  wakes  the  spirit  to  the  sense 

Of  outward  shows,  w^hose  unexperienced  shape 

New^  modes  of  passion  to  its  frame  may  lend  ; 

Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 

Of  all  events  is  aggi-egated  there 

That  variegate  the  eternal  universe  ; 

Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom, 

That  leads  to  azure  isles  and  beaming  skies. 

And  happy  regions  of  eternal  hope. 

Therefore,  O  Spirit !  fearlessly  bear  on  : 

Though  storms  may  break  the  primrose  on  its  stalk. 

Though  fro.sts  may  blight  the  freshness  of  its  bloom. 

Yet  spring's  awakening  breath  will  woo  the  earth. 

To  feed  with  kindliest  dews  its  favorite  flower. 

That  blooms  in  mossy  banks  and  darksome  glens, 

Lighting  the  greenwood  with  its  sunny  smile. 

Fear  not  then.  Spirit,  death's  disrobing  hand: 
So  welcome  when  the  tyrant  is  awake, 
So  welcome  when  the  bigot's  hell-torch  burns; 
'Tis  but  the  voyage  of  a  darksome  hour. 
The  transient  gulf-dream  of  a  startling  sleep. 
Death  is  no  foe  to  virtue  :  earth  lias  ecen 


208  QUEEN    MAB, 

Love's  brightest  roses  on  the  scaffold  bloom, 
Mhigling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels  there, 
And  presaging  the  truth  of  visioned  bliss. 
Are  there  not  hopes  within  thee  which  this  scene 
Of  linked  and  gradual  being  has  confirmed  ? 
Whose  stingings  bade  thy  heart  look  further  still, 
"When  to  the  moonlight  walk,  by  Henry  led, 
Sweetly  and  sadly  thou  didst  talk  of  death  ? 
And  wilt  thou  rudely  tear  them  from  thy  breast, 
Listening  supinely  to  a  bigot's  creed, 
*         Or  tamely  crouching  to  the  tyrant's  rod. 

Whose  iron  thongs  are  red  with  human  gore  ? 
Never:  but  bravely  bearing  on,  thy  will 
Is  destined  an  eternal  war  to  wage 
With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The  germs  of  misery  from  the  human  heart. 
Thine  is  the  hand  whose  piety  would  soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime 
Whose  impotence  an  easy  pardon  gains. 
Watching  its  wanderings,  as  a  friend's  disease  : 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would  defy 
Its  fiercest  rage,  and  brave  its  steniest  will, 
When  fenced  by  power  and  master  of  the  world. 
Thou  art  sincere  and  good ;  of  resolute  mind, 
Free  from  heart  withering  custom's  cold  control. 
Of  passion  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdued. 
Earth's  pride  and  meanness  could  not  vanquish  thee, 
And  therefore  art  thou  worthy  of  the  boon 
Which  thou  hast  now  received  :  virtue  shall  keep 
Thy  footsteps  in  the  path  that  thou  hast  trod, 
And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall  bless 
Thy  spotless  life  of  sweet  and  sacred  love. 
Go,  happy  one  !  and  give  that  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  thy  smile. 

The  Fairy  waves  her  wand  of  charm. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the  Spirit  mounts  the  car 

That  rolled  beside  the  battlement. 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 

Again  the  enchanted  steeds  were  yoked. 

Again  the  burning  wheels  inflame 
The  steep  descent  of  heaven's  untrodden  way. 

Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew : 

The  vast  and  fiery  globes  that  rolled 

Around  the  Fairy's  palace  gate 
Lessened  by  slow  degrees,  and  soon  appeared 
Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs 
That  there  attendant  on  the  solar  power 
With  borrowed  light  pursued  their  narrower  way. 

Earth  floated  then  below  : 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment  there  — 


QUEEN    MAB.  209 

The  Spirit  then  descended  : 
The  restless  coursers  pawed  the  ungeuial  soil, 
Snuffed  the  gross  air,  and  then,  their  enaud  done, 
Unfurled  their  pinions  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 

The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then  ; 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  lanthe's  frame  : 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed  ; 
Moveless  awhile  the  dark  blue  orbs  remained  : 
She  looked  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch. 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speechless  love. 

And  the  bright  beaming  stars 

That  through  the  casement  shone. 
14 


ALASTOR 


OR, 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE. 


"  Nondum  amabam,  et  amare    arnabam,  quserebam  quid   amarem 
anians  amare." — Confess.  St.  August. 


PREFACE. 


The  poem  entitled  '  Alastor'  may  be  considered  as  allegorical  of  one 
of  the  most  interesting  situations  of  the  human  mind.  It  represents  a 
youth  of  uncorrupted  feehngs  and  adventurous  genius,  led  forth  by  an 
imagination  inflamed  and  purified  through  familiarity  with  all  that  is 
excellent  and  majestic,  to  the  contemplation  of  the  universe.  He 
drinks  deep  of  the  fountains  of  knowledge,  and  is  still  insatiate.  The 
magnificence  and  beauty  of  the  external  world  sinks  profoundly  into 
the  frame  of  his  conceptions,  and  affords  to  their  modifications  a  va- 
riety not  to  be  exhausted.  So  long  as  it  is  possible  for  his  desires  to 
point  toward  objects  thus  infinite  and  unmeasured,  he  is  joyous  and 
tranquil  and  self-possessed.  But  the  period  arrives  when  these  ob- 
jects cease  to  suffice.  His  mind  is  at  length  suddenly  awakened,  and 
thirsts  for  intercourse  with  an  intelligence  similar  to  itself.  He  images 
to  himself  the  Being  whom  he  loves.  Conversant  with  speculations 
of  the  sublimest  and  most  perfect  natures,  the  vision  in  which  he  em- 
bodies his  own  imagination  unites  all  of  wonderful  or  wise  or  beauti- 
ful which  the  poet,  the  philosopher  or  the  lover  could  depicture.  The 
intellectual  faculties,  the  imagination,  the  functions  of  sense,  have 
their  respective  requisitions  on  the  sympathy  of  corresponding  powers 
in  other  human  beings.  The  poet  is  represented  as  uniting  these  re- 
quisitions, and  attaching  them  to  a  single  image.  He  seeks  in  vain 
for  a  prototype  of  his  conception.  Blasted  by  his  disa'ppointment,  he 
descends  to  an  untimely  grave. 

The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruction  to  actual  men.  The  poet's 
self-centered  seclusion  was  avenged  by  the  furies  of  an  irresistible 
passion  pursuing  him  to  speedy  ruin.  But  that  Power  which  strikes 
the  luminaries  of  the  world  with  sudden  darkness  and  extinction,  by 
awakening  them  to  too  exquisite  a  perception  of  its  influences,  dooms 
to  a  slow  and  poisonous  decay  those  meaner  spirits  that  dare  to  abjure 
its  dominion.  Their  destiny  is  more  abject  and  inglorious,  as  their 
delinquency  is  more  contemptible  and  pernicious.  They  who,  deluded 
by  no  generous  error,  instigated  by  no  sacred  thirst  of  doubtful  knowl- 
edge, duped  by  no  illustrious  superstition,  loving  nothing  on  this  earth 
and  cherishing  no  hopes  beyond,  yet  keep  aloof  from  sympathies  with 
their  kind,  rejoicing  neither  in  human  j(iy  nor  mourning  with  human 
grief  —  these,  and  such  as  they,  have  their  apportioned  curse:  they 
languish,  because  none  feel  with  them  their  common  nature  ;  they  are 
morally  dead  ;  they  are  neither  friends,  nor  lovers,  nor  fathers,  nor  citi- 
zens of  the  world,  nor  benefactors  of  their  country.  Among  those  who 
attempt  to  exist  without  human  sympathy,  the  pure  and  tender-hearted 
perish  tlirough  the  intensity  and  passion  of  their  search  after  its  com- 


2l4  PREFACE. 

munities,  when  the  vacancy  of  their  spirit  suddenly  makes  itself  felt. 
All  else,  selfish,  blind  and  torpid,  are  those  unforeseeing  multitudes 
who  constitute,  together  with  their  own,  the  lasting  misery  and  lone- 
liness of  the  world.  Those  who  love  not  their  fellow-beings  live  un- 
fruitful lives,  and  prepare  for  their  old  age  a  miserable  grave. 

The  good  die  first, 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer's  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ' 

December  14, 1815. 


ALASTOR; 

OB, 

THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE. 


Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood  ! 

If  our  great  Mother  have  embued  my  soul 

With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 

Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  w^ith  mine  ; 

If  dewy  morn  and  odorous  noon  and  even 

With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 

And  solemn  midnight's  tingling  silentness  ; 

If  autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood, 

And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 

Of  starry  ice  the  gray  grass  and  bare  boughs  ; 

If  spring's  voluptuous  pantings  when  she  breathes 

Her  first  sweet  kisses,  have  been  dear  to  me  ; 

If  no  bright  bird,  insect  or  gentle  beast 

I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 

And  cherished  these  my  kindred  —  then  forgive* 

This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  withdraw 

No  portion  of  your  wonted  favor  now  ! 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world  ! 
"Favor  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 
Thee  ever,  and  thee  only  ;  I  have  watched 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  steps, 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my  bed 
In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black  death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from  thee. 
Hoping  to  still  the.se  obstinate  questionings 
Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost, 
Thy  me&senger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are.     In  lone  and  silent  hours, 
When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its  own  stillness, 


216  ALASTOR  ;    OR, 

Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchimist 

Staking  his  veiy  life  on  some  dark  hope, 

Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 

With  my  most  innocent  love,  until  strange  tears, 

Uniting  with  those  breathless  kisses,  made 

Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 

To  render  up  thy  charge  ;  and,  though  ne'er  yet 

Thou  hast  unvailed  thy  inmost  sanctuary  ; 

Enough  from  incommunicable  dream, 

And  twilight  phantasms  and  deep  noonday  thought 

Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 

And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 

Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 

Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 

I  wait  thy  breath,  Great  Parent,  that  my  strain 

May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 

And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea, 

And  voice  of  living  beings,  and  woven  hymns 

Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of  man. 

There  was  a  poet  whose  untimely  tomb 
No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  reared, 
But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness ; 
A  lovely  youth  —  no  mourning  maiden  decked 
"With  weeping  flowers  or  votive  cypress  wreath 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep  : 
Gentle  and  brave  and  generous,  no  lorn  bard 
Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious  sigh  : 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  sang,  in  solitude. 
Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate  notes, 
And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have  pined 
And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 
The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn, 
And  Silence,  too  enamored  of  that  voice, 
Locks  its  mute  Inusic  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision  and  bright  silver  dream 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips  ;  and  all  of  great 
Or  good  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
Li  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And  knew.    When  early  youth  had  past,  he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home, 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscovered  lands. 
Many  a  w^ide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps  ;  and  he  has  bought 
With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage  men, 
His  rest  and  food.    Nature's  most  secret  steps 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  217 

He,  like  her  shadow,  has  pursued,  where'er 

The  red  volcano  overcaiiopies 

Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 

With  burning  smoke  ;  or  where  bitumen  lakes 

On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 

With  sluggish  surge  ;  or  where  the  secret  caves, 

Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs 

Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 

To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 

Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 

Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls, 

Frequent  with  crystal  columns,  and  clear  shrines 

Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrysolite. 

Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 

Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of  heaven 

And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its  claims 

To  love  and  wonder  ;  he  would  linger  long 

In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  w^ild  his  home, 

Until  the  doves  and  squiiTels  would  partake 

From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 

Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks, 

And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene'er 

The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 

Her  timid  steps,  to  gaze  upon  a  form 

More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step, 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old  : 
Athens  and  Tyre  and  Balbec,  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe'er  of  strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk. 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphinx, 
Dark  Ethiopia  on  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.     Among  the  ruined  temples  there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  demons  watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  walls  around, 
He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth,  through  the  long  burning  day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor,  when  the  moon 
Filled  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating  shades. 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 

Meanwhile  an  Arab  maiden  brought  his  food, 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent, 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch,  and  stole 


218  ALASTOR  ;    OR, 

From  duties  and  repose  to  tend  his  steps  — 
Enamored,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  a^we 
To  speak  her  love  —  and  watched  his  nightly  sleep, 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 
Parted  in  slumber,  whence  the  regular  breath 
Of  innocent  dreams  arose  ;  then,  when  red  mom 
Made  paler  the  pale  moon,  to  her  cold  home. 
Wildered  and  wan  and  panting,  she  returned. 

The  poet  wandering  on,  through  Arabic 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmanian  waste, 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  which  pour  down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way  ; 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cachmire,  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants  entwine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  bower, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  yet 
Had  flushed  his  cheek.     He  dreamed  a  vailed  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  solemn  tones. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought ;  its  music  long. 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many  colored  M^oof  and  shifting  hues. 
Knowledge  and  truth  and  virtue  were  her  theme. 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 
Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy, 
Herself  a  poet.     Soon  the  .solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her  frame 
A  permeating  lire  :  wild  numbers  then 
She  raised,  with  voice  stifled  in  tremulous  sobs 
Subdued  by  its  own  pathos  ;  her  fair  hands 
"Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some  strange  harp 
Strange  .symphony,  and  in  their  branching  veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 
Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  tits 
Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose, 
As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 
Its  bursting  burden  :  at  the  sound  he  turned. 
And  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  tlieir  own  life 
Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous  vail 
Of  woven  wind  ;  her  outspread  arms  now  bare, 
Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of  night, 
Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 
Outstretched  and  pale,  and  quivering  eagerlj'. 
His  strong  heart  sank  and  sickened  with  excess 
Of  love.     He  reared  his  shuddering  limbs,  and  quelled 
His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms  to  meet 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  219 

Her  panting  bosom  :  she  drew  back  awhile, 
Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy, 
With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless  cry 
Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 
Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and  night 
Involved  and  swallowed  up  the  vision  ;  sleep, 
Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course, 
Rolled  back  its  impulse  on  his  vacant  brain. 

Roused  by  the  shock,  he  started  from  his  trance  — 

The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue  moon 

Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills, 

The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods. 

Spread  round  him  where  he  stood.     Whither  have  fled 

The  hues  of  heaven  that  canopied  his  bower 

Of  yesternight  ?     The  sounds  that  soothed  his  sleep, 

The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 

The  joy,  the  exultation  ?     His  wan  eyes 

Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 

As  ocean's  moon  looks  on  the  moon  in  heaven. 

The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 

A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  him  who  spurned 

Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 

Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting  shade  ; 

He  overleaps  the  bounds.     Alas  !  alas  ! 

Were  limbs  and  breath  and  being  intertwined 

Thus  treacherously  ?     Lost,  lost,  for  ever  lost, 

In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep. 

That  beautiful  shape  !     Does  the  dark  gate  of  death 

Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 

O  Sleep  ?     Does  the  bright  arch  of  rainbow  clouds, 

And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm  lake. 

Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth. 

While  death's  blue  vault  with  loathliest  vapors  hung, 

Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave  exhales 

Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  dete.sted  day. 

Conduct,  O  Sleep,  to  thy  delightful  realms  ? 

This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flowed  on  his  heart, 

The  insatiate  hope  which  it  awakened,  stung 

His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  daylight  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion  came, 
Like  the  fierce  fiend  of  a  distempered  dream, 
And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led  him  forth 
Into  the  darkness.     As  an  eagle  grasped 
In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her  breast 
Bum  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 
Through  night  and  day,  tempest,  and  calm  and  cloud, 
Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind  flight 
O'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness  :  thus  driven 
By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream. 


220  ALASTOR  ;    OR, 

Beneath  the  cold  glare  of  the  desolate  night, 

Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  precipitous  dells, 

Startling  with  careless  step  the  moonlight  snake, 

He  fled.     Red  morning  daw^ned  upon  his  flight, 

Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 

Upon  his  cheek  of  death.     He  wandered  on, 

Till  vast  Aornos  seen  fi-om  Petra's  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud  ; 

Through  Balk,  and  where  the  de.solated  tombs 

Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 

Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wandered  on, 

Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours. 

Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 

That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 

And  now  his  limbs  w^ere  lean  ;  his  scattered  hair, 

Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suffering, 

Sung  dirges  in  the  wind  ;  his  listless  hand 

Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered  skin  ; 

Life,  and  the  lustre  that  consumed  it,  shone 

As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 

From  his  dark  eyes  alone.     The  cottagers, 

Who  ministered  with  human  charity 

His  human  vt^ants,  beheld  "with  wondering  awe 

Their  fleeting  visitant.     The  mountaineer, 

Encountering  on  some  dizzy  precipice 

That  spectral  form,  deemed  that  the  Spirit  of  wind 

With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager  breath,  and  feet 

Disturbing  not  the  drifted  snow,  had  pau.sed 

In  his  career  :  the  infant  would  conceal 

His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 

In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  -wild  eyes. 

To  remember  their  strange  light  in  many  a  dream 

Of  after-times ;  but  youthful  maidens,  taught 

By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 

That  wasted  him,  would  call  him  with  false  names 

Brother,  and  friend,  would  press  his  pallid  hand 

At  parting,  and  watch,  dim  through  tears,  the  path 

Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 

At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 
He  paused,  a  w^ide  and  melancholy  "waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.     A  strong  impulse  urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.    A  swan  was  there 
Beside  a  sluggi.sh  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approached  and  with  strong  wings 
Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His  eyes  pursued  its  flight.     "  Thou  hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird  !  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home, 
Where  thy  sweet  mate  "will  t"wine  her  do"wny  neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  Hnger  here. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  221 

With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  po^vers 
In  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts  ?"     A  gloomy  smile 
Of  depperate  hope  w^rinkled  his  quivering  lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  exposed, 
Faithless  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy  lure, 
With  doubtful  smile  mocking  its  own  strange  charms. 

Startled  by  his  own  thoughts,  he  looked  around  : 
There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him,  not  a  sight 
Or  sound  of  awe  but  in  his  own  deep  mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught  the  impatient  wandering  of  his  gaze. 
It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides 
Gaped  wide  with  many  a  rift,  and  its  frail  joints 
Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide, 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean's  waste; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow  loved 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny  :  sea  and  sky 

Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the  wind 

Swept  strongly  from  the  shore,  blackening  the  waves. 

Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 

Leaped  in  the  boat,  he  spread  his  cloak  aloft 

On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely  seat, 

And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil  sea 

Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 

Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 

Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 

Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 

The  stiaining  boat.     A  whirlwind  swept  it  on, 

With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force. 

Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  sea. 

The  weaves  aro.se.     Higher  and  higher  still 

Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the  tempest's  scourge 

Like  serpents  strugp;ling  in  a  vulture's  grasp. 

Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 

Of  wave  running  on  wave,  and  blast  on  blast 

De.scending,  and  black  flood  on  whirlpool  driven 

With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate  : 

As  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers 

Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 

Of  tliose  beloved  eyes^  the  Poet  sate 

Holding  the  .steady  helm.     Evening  came  on, 

The  beams  of  sun.sct  hung  their  rainbow  hues 

High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted  spray 


222  ALASTOR  ;    0I{, 

That  canopied  his  path  o'er  the  waste  deep  ; 
Twihght,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east, 
Entwined  in  duskier  wreaths  lier  braided  locks 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of  day ; 
Night  followed,  clad  with  stars.     On  every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual  war 
Rushed  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to  mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.     The  little  boat 
Still  fled  before  the  storm  ;  still  lied,  like  foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river ; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven  wave  ; 
Now  leaving  far  behind  the  bursting  mass 
That  fell,  convulsing  ocean.     Safely  fled  — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose  :  and  lo  !  the  ethereal  cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
"Whose  caverned  base  the  whirlpools  and  the  w^aves, 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly, 
Rage  and  resound  for  ever.  —  Who  shall  save  ?  — 
The  boat  fled  on  —  the  boiling  torrent  drove  — 
The  crags  clo.sed  round  with  black  and  jagged  arms, 
The  shattered  mountain  overhung  the  sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed, 
Suspended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth  wave, 
The  little  boat  was  driven.     A  cavern  there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding  depths 
Ingulfed  the  rushing  sea.     The  boat  fled  on 
With  unrelaxing  speed.     "  Vision  and  Love  !" 
The  poet  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.     Sleep  and  death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long." 

The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of  the  cavern.     Daylight  shone 
At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow  ; 
Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the  waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream 
The  boat  moved  slowly.     "Where  the  mountain,  riven, 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure  sky, 
Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,  the  mass 
Filled  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample  chasm; 
Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  waters  rose. 
Circling  immeasurably  vast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnsirled  roots. 
Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretched  their  giant  arms 
In  darkness  over  it.     I'  the  midst  was  left. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  223 

Reflecting  yet  distorting  every  cloud, 

A  pool  of  treacherous  and  tremendous  calm. 

Seized  by  the  s\vay  of  the  ascending  stream, 

With  dizzy  swiftness,  round  and  round  and  round. 

Ridge  after  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose, 

Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve. 

Where,  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky  bank, 

The  waters  overHow^,  and  a  smooth  spot 

Of  glassy  quiet  'mid  those  battling  tides 

Is  left,  the  boat  paused  shuddering.     Shall  it  sink 

Down  the  abyss  ?    Shall  the  reverting  stress 

Of  that  resistless  gulf  embosom  it  ? 

Now  shall  it  fall  ?     A  wandering  stream  of  wind, 

Breathed  from  the  west,  has  caught  the  expanded  sail, 

And  lo  !  with  gentle  motion  between  banks 

Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream, 

Beneath  a  woven  grove,  it  sails  —  and  hark  ? 

The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  ix)ar 

With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical  woods. 

Where  the  embowering  trees  recede  and  leave 

A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 

Is  closed  by  meeting  banks  whose  yellow  flowers 

For  ever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes. 

Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.     The  wave 

Of  the  boat's  motion  marred  tlieir  jjensive  task. 

Which  naught  but  vagrant  bird  or  wanton  wind 

Or  falling  spear-grass  or  their  own  decay 

Had  e'er  disturbed  before.     The  poet  longed 

To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  withered  hair, 

But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  returned. 

And  he  forbore.     Not  the  strong  impulse  hid 

In  those  flushed  cheeks,  bent  eyes  and  shadowy  frame, 

Had  yet  performed  its  ministry  :  it  hung 

Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 

Gleams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,  ere  the  floods 

Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.     There  huge  caves 
Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  those  aery  rocks 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for  ever. 
The  meeting  boughs  ai»d  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  poet's  path,  as  led 
By  love  or  dream  or  god  or  mightier  Death, 
He  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt  some  bank. 
Her  cradle  and  his  sepulchre.     More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate  —  the  oak. 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms. 
Embraces  the  light  beech.     The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching,  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below, 


224  ALASTOR  ;    OR, 

Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 

The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 

Tremulous  and  pale.     Like  restless  serpents,  clothed 

In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  jjarasites, 

Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 

The  gray  trunks,  and,  as  gamesome  infants'  eyes 

"With  gentle  meanings  and  most  innocent  wiles 

Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love, 

These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs 

Uniting  their  close  union  ;  the  woven  leaves 

Make  network  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day, 

And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 

As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.     Soft  mossy  lawns 

Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells. 

Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed  with  blooms 

Minute  yet  beautiful.     One  darkest  glen 

Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-ro^-e,  twined  with  jasmine 

A  soul-dissolving  odor,  to  invite 

To  some  more  lovely  mystery.     Tlirough  the  dell 

Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters,  keep 

Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the  shades 

Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen  ;  beyond,  a  well, 

Dark,  gleaming  and  of  most  translucent  wave, 

Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above, 

And  each  depending  leaf  and  every  speck 

Of  azure  sky  darting  between  their  chasms ; 

Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 

Its  portraiture,  but  some  incon.stant  star 

Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair. 

Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon,  » 

Or  gorgeous  insect,  floating  motionless. 

Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 

Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

Hither  the  poet  came.     His  eyes  beheld 

Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 

Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 

Of  that  still  fountain  ;  as  the  human  heart. 

Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave. 

Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.     He  heard 

The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that  sprung 

Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even  to  feel 

An  unaccustomed  presence,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  sweet  bi-ook  that  from  the  secret  springs 

Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.     A  spirit  seemed 

To  stand  beside  him  —  clothed  in  no  bright  robes 

Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light. 

Borrowed  from  aught  the  visible  world  affords* 

Of  grace  or  majesty  or  my.stery  — 

But  undulating  woods  and  silent  well 

And  rippling  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 

No%v  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech  assuming 

Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  225 

Were  all  that  was  :  only  —  when  his  regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness  —  two  eyes, 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought, 
And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell. —  The  rivulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green  ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.     Sometimes  it  fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.     Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced,  like  childhood  laughing  as  it  went  ; 
Then  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings  crept, 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness. —  "  O  stream  ! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound, 
"Whither  do  thy  mysterious  waters  tend  ? 
Thou  iraagest  my  life.     Thy  darksome  stillness, 
Thy  day.zling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow  gulfs. 
Thy  searchless  fountain  and  invisible  course. 
Have  each  their  type  in  me  :  and  the  wide  sky 
And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 
What  oozy  cavern  or  what  wandering  cloud 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where  these  living  thoughts  re.side,  when  stretched 
Upon  thy  flo\vers  my  bloodless  limbs  shall  waste 
I'  the  passing  wind  !" 

Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the  small  stream  he  went ;  he  did  impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step,  that  caught 
Strong  shuddering  from  his  burning  limbs.     As  one 
Roused  by  some  joyous  madness  from  the  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move  ;  yet.  not  like  him, 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  v^diere,  when  the  flame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent, 
He  must  descend.     With  rapid  steps  he  went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the  flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet ;  and  now 
The  forest's  solemn  canopies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 
Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss,  and  stemmed 
The  struggling  brook  :  tall  spires  of  windle.strae 
Threw  their  thin  .shadows  down  the  rugged  slope, 
And  nauglit  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  pines, 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clinched  with  grasping  roots 
The  unwilling  soiT.     A  gradual  change  was  here. 
Yet  ghastly.     For  as  fast  years  flow  away. 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And  white  ;  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs  :  so  from  his  steps 
15 


226  ALASTOR  ;    OR, 

Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musical  motions.     Calm,  he  still  pursued 
The  stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume  now 
Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell ;  and  there 
Fretted  a  path  through  its  descending  curves 
With  wintry  speed.     On  every  side  now  rose 
Rocks,  w^hich  in  unimaginable  forms 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
'Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs  and  yawning  caves 
Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various  tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.     Lo  !  w^here  the  pass  expands 
Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks, 
And  seems  with  its  accumulated  crags 
To  overhang  the  world  :  for  v^^ide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams, 
Dim  tracks  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-colored  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.     The  near  scene 
In  naked  and  severe  simplicity, 
Made  contrast  with  the  universe.     A  pine, 
Rock-rooted,  stretched  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast 
Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pause, 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl, 
The  thunder  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams 
Mingling  its  solemn  song,  while  the  broad  river, 
Foaming  and  hurrying  o'er  its  rugged  patli. 
Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void. 
Scattering  its  waters  to  the  passing  winds. 
Yet  the  gray  precipice  and  solemn  pine 
And  torrent  were  not  all :  one  silent  nook 
Was  there.     Even  on  the  edge  of  that  vast  mountain, 
Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks, 
It  overlooked  in  its  serenity 
The  dark  earth  and  the  bending  vault  of  stars. 
It  was  a  tranquil  spot,  that  seemed  to  smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.     Ivy  clasped 
The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  arms 
And  did  embower  with  leaves  for  ever  green, 
And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even  space 
Of  its  inviolated  floor,  and  here 
The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind  bore,    , 
In  wanton  sport,  those  bright  leaves  whose  decay, 
Red,  yellow  or  ethereally  pale. 
Rivals  the  pride  of  summer.     'Tis  the  haunt 
Of  every  gentle  wind  whose  breath  can  teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.     One  step. 
One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE.  22^ 

The  stillness  of  its  solitude  :  one  voice 

Alone  inspired  its  echoes  —  even  that  voice 

Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the  winds. 

And  led  the  loveliest  among  human  forms 

To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depository 

Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 

Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 

Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm, 

And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern  mould, 

Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching  moss, 

Commit  the  colors  of  that  varying  cheek. 

That  snowy  bi-east,  those  dark  and  drooping  eyes. 

The  dim  and  horned  moon  hung  low  and  poured 
A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 
That  overflowed  its  mountains.     Yellow  mist 
Filled  the  unbounded  atmosphere,  and  drank 
Wan  moonlight  even  to  fullness  :  not  a  star 
Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard  :  the  very  winds, 
Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  precipice 
Slept,  clasped  in  his  embrace. —  O,  storm  of  death  ! 
Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen  night: 
And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 
Guiding  its  irresistible  career 
In  thy  devastating  omnipotence. 
Art  king  of  this  frail  world,  from  the  red  field 
Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital, 
The  patriot's  sacred  couch,  the  snowy  bed 
Of  innocence,  the  scaftbld  and  the  throne, 
A  mighty  voice  invokes  thee.     Ruin  calls 
His  brother  Death.     A  rare  and  regal  prey 
He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the  world  ; 
Glutted  with  which  thou  mayest  repose,  and  men 
Go  to  their  graves  like  flov^'^ers  or  creeping  worms, 
Nor  ever  more  oft'er  at  thy  dark  shrine 
The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  the  green  recess 
The  wanderer's  footsteps  fell,  he  knew  that  death 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  liigh  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  pa.st, 
That  paused  within  his  passive  being  now, 
Like  winds  that  bear  sweet  music,  when  they  breathe 
Through  some  dim  latticed  chamber.     He  did  place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  ojd  pine.     Upon  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head,  his  limbs  did  rest, 
Dift'used  and  motionless,  on  the  smooth  brink 
Of  that  obscurest  chasm  ;  and  thus  he  lay, 
Surrendering  to  their  final  impulses 
The  hovering  powers  of  life.     Hope  and  Despair, 
The  torturers,  slept :  no  mortal  pain  or  feai* 


228  ALASTOR  ;    OR, 

Marred  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense, 

And  his  own  being  unalloyed  by  pain, 

Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 

The  stream  of  thought,  till  he  lay  breathing  there 

At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling  :  his  last  sight 

Was  the  great  moon,  which  o'er  the  western  line 

Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  suspended, 

"With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven  darkness  seemed 

To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 

It  rests,  and  still  as  the  divided  frame 

Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  poet's  blood, 

That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 

With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler  still  : 

And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light  alone 

Gleamed  through  the  darkness,  the  alternate  gasp 

Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 

The  stagnate  night  —  till  the  minutest  ray 

Was  quenched,  the  pulse  yet  lingered  in  his  heart. 

It  paused  —  it  fluttered.     B  ut  when  heaven  remained 

Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 

An  image  silent,  cold  and  motionless 

As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant  air. 

Even  as  a  vapor  fed  with  golden  beams 

That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  vilest 

Eclipses  it,  was  now  tliat  wondrous  frame  — 

No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity  — 

A  fragile  lute,  on  whose  harmonious  strings 

The  breath  of  heaven  did  wander  —  a  bright  stream 

Once  fed  with  many-voiced  waves  —  a  dream 

Of  youth,  which  night  and  time  have  quenched  for  ever, 

Still,  dark  and  dry,  and  unremembered  now. 

O,  for  Medea's  wondrous  alchemy, 
Which  wheresoe'er  it  fell  made  the  earth  gleam 
With  bright  flowers,  and  the  wintry  boughs  exhale 
From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance  !    O,  that  God, 
Profuse  of  poisons,  w^ould  concede  the  chalice 
Which  but  one  living  man  has  drained,  who  now. 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that  feels 
No  proud  exemption  in  the  blighting  curse 
He  bears,  over  the  world  wanders  for  ever. 
Lone  as  incarnate  death  !     O,  that  the  dream 
Of  dark  magician  in  his  visioned  cave. 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 
For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble  hand 
Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 
Of  this  so  lovely  world  !     But  thou  art  fled 
Like  some  frail  exhalation,  which  the  dawn 
Robes  in  its  golden  beams  —  ah  !  thou  hast  fled  ! 
The  brave,  the  gentle  and  the  beautiful. 
The  child  of  grace  and  genius.     Heartless  things 
Are  done  and  said  i'  the  world,  and  many  worms 
And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty  Earth 


THE    SPI"IT    OF    SOLITUDE.  229 

From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness, 

In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison, 

Lifts  still  its  solemn  voice  :  but  thou  art  fled  — 

Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 

Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  w^ho  have  to  thee 

Been  purest  ministers  —  who  are,  alas  ! 

Now  thou  art  not.     Upon  those  pallid  lips 

So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those  eyes 

That  image  sleep  in  death,  upon  that  form 

Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no  tear 

Be  shed  —  not  even  in  thought.     Nor,  when  those  hues 

Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments, 

Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live  alone 

In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain, 

Let  not  high  ver.se.  mourning  the  memory 

Of  that  which  is  no  more,  or  painting's  woe 

Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 

Their  own  cold  powers.     Art  and  eloquence 

And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world  are  frail  and  vain 

To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  light  to  shade. 

It  is  a  woe  too  •'  deep  for  tears,"  when  all 

Is  reft  at  once  —  when  .some  surpassing  spirit, 

Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it.  leaves 

Those  who  remain  behind  nor  sobs  nor  groans, 

The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope  ; 

But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity. 

Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 

Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were. 


NOTE    ON    ALASTOR. 


BY   MRS.    SHELLEY. 


•  Alastob'  is  written  in  a  very  different  tone  from  '  Queen  Mab.'  In 
the  latter  Shelley  poured  out  all  the  cherished  speculations  of  his 
youth  —  all  the  irrepressible  emotions  of  sympathy,  censure  and  hope, 
to  which  the  present  suffering,  and  what  he  considers  the  proper  des- 
tiny of  his  fellow-creatures,  gave  birth.  '  Alastor,'  on  the  contrary, 
contains  an  individual  interest  only.  A  very  few  years,  with  their  at- 
tendant events,  had  checked  the  ardor  of  Shelley's  hopes,  though  he 
still  thought  them  well  grounded,  and  that  to  advance  their  fulfilment 
was  the  noblest  task  man  could  achieve. 

This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  to  speak  of  the  misfortunes  that 
checkered  his  life.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  in  all  he  did,  he,  at 
the  time  of  doing  it,  believed  himself  justified  to  his  own  conscience  ; 
while  the  various  ills  of  poverty  and  loss  of  friends  brought  home  to 
him  the  sad  realities  of  life.  Physical  suffering  had  also  considerable 
influence  in  causing  him  to  turn  his  eyes  inward  —  inclining  him  rather 
to  brood  over  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  his  own  soul,  than  to 
glance  abroad,  and  to  make,  as  in  '  Queen  Mab,'  the  whole  universe  the 
object  and  subject  of  his  song.  In  the  spring  of  1815  an  eminent  phy- 
sician pronounced  that  he  was  dying  rapidly  of  a  consumption  ;  ab- 
scesses were  formed  on  his  lungs,  and  he  suffered  acute  spasms. 
Suddenly  a  complete  change  took  place  ;  and  though  tiirough  life 
he  was  a  martyr  to  pain  and  debility,  every  symptom  of  pulmonary 
disease  vanished.  His  nerves,  which  nature  had  formed  sensitive  to 
an  unexampled  degree,  were  rendered  still  more  susceptible  by  the 
state  of  his  health. 

As  soon  as  the  peace  of  1814  had  opened  the  continent,  he  went 
abroad.  He  visited  some  of  the  more  magnificent  scenes  of  Switzer- 
land, and  returned  to  England  from  Lucerne,  by  the  Reuss  and  the 
Rhine.  This  river  navigation  enchanted  him.  In  his  favorite  poem 
of  '  Thalaba,'  his  imagination  had  been  excited  by  a  description  of  such 
a  voyage.  In  the  summer  of  1815,  after  a  tour  along  the  southern  coast 
of  Devonshire  and  a  visit  to  Clifton,  he  rented  a  house  on  Bishopgate 
Heath,  on  the  borders  of  Windsor  forest,  where  he  enjoyed  several 
months  of  comparative  health  and  tranquil  happiness.  The  later  sum- 
mer months  were  warm  and  dry.  Accompanied  by  a  few  friends,  he 
visited  the  source  of  the  Thames,  making  the  voyage  m  a  wherry  from 
Windsor  to  Crichlade.  His  beautiful  stanzas  in  the  churchyard  of 
Lechlade  were  written  on  that  occasion.    '  Alastor'  was  composed  on 


232  NOTE    ON    ALASTOR. 

his  return.  He  spent  his  days  under  the  oak-shades  of  Windsor  Great 
Park  ;  and  the  magnificent  woodland  was  a  fitting  study  to  inspire  the 
various  descriptions  of  forest  scenery  we  find  in  the  poem. 

None  of  Shelley's  poems  is  more  characteristic  than  this.  The  sol- 
emn spirit  that  reigns  throughout,  the  worship  of  the  majesty  of  nature, 
the  broodings  of  a  poet's  heart  in  solitude  —  the  mingling  of  the  exult- 
ing joy  which  the  various  aspect  of  the  visible  universe  inspires,  with 
the  sad  and  struggling  pangs  which  human  passion  imparts  —  give  a 
touching  interest  to  the  whole.  The  death  which  he  had  often  con- 
templated during  the  last  months  as  certain  and  near,  he  here  repre- 
sented in  such  colors  as  had  in  his  lonely  musings  soothed  his  soul  to 
peace.  The  versification  sustains  the  solemn  spirit  which  breathes 
throughout :  it  is  peculiarly  melodious.  The  poem  ought  rather  to  be 
considered  didactic  than  narrative  ;  it  was  the  outpouring  of  his  own 
emotions,  embodied  in  the  purest  form  he  could  conceive,  painted  in 
the  ideal  hues  which  his  brilliant  imagination  inspired,  and  softened  by 
the  recent  anticipation  of  death. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


IN    FOUR    ACTS. 


Audisne  haec,  Amphiarae,  sub  terrain  abdite'' 


PREFACE. 


The  Greek  tragic  writers,  in  selecting  as  their  subject  any  portion 
of  their  national  history  or  mythology,  employed  in  their  treatment  of 
it  a  certain  arbitrary  discretion.  They  by  no  means  conceived  them- 
selves bound  to  adhere  to  the  common  interpretation,  or  to  imitate  in 
story,  as  in  title,  their  rivals  and  predecessors.  Such  a  system  would 
have  amounted  to  a  resignation  of  those  claims  to  preference  over 
their  competitors  which  incited  the  composition.  The  Agamemnonian 
story  was  exhibited  on  the  Athenian  theatre  with  as  many  variations 
as  dramas. 

I  have  presumed  to  employ  a  similar  license.  The  'Prometheus 
Unbound'  of  .^sciiylus  supposed  the  reconciliation  of  Jupiter  with  his 
victim  as  the  price  of  the  disclosure  of  tlie  danger  threatened  to  his 
empire  by  the  consummation  of  his  marriage  with  Thetis.  Thetis, 
according  to  this  view  of  the  subject,  was  given  in  marriage  to  Peleus, 
and  Prometheus,  by  the  permission  of  Jupiter,  delivered  from  his  cap- 
tivity by  Hercules.  Had  I  framed  my  story  on  this  model,  I  should 
have  done  no  more  than  have  attempted  to  restore  the  lost  drama  of 
jEschylus  —  an  ambition  which,  if  my  preference  to  this  mode  of  treat- 
ing the  subject  had  incited  me  to  cherish,  the  recollection  of  the  high 
comparison  such  an  attempt  would  challenge  might  well  abate.  But, 
in  truth,  I  was  averse  from  a  catastrophe  so  feeble  as  that  of  reconci- 
ling the  Champion  with  the  Oppressor  of  mankind.  'I  he  moral  inter- 
est of  the  fable,  which  is  so  powerfully  sustained  by  the  sufferings  and 
endurance  of  Prometheus,  would  be  annihilated  if  we  coula  conceive 
of  him  as  unsaying  his  high  language  and  quailing  before  his  success- 
ful and  perfidious  adversary.  The  only  imaginary  being  resembling 
in  any  degree  Prometheus,  is  Satan  ;  and  Prometheus  is  in  my  judge- 
ment a  more  poetical  character  than  Satan,  because,  in  addition  to 
courage  and  majesty  and  firm  and  patient  opposition  to  omnipotent 
force,  he  is  susceptible  of  being  described  as  exempt  from  the  taints  of 
ambition,  envy,  revenge  and  a  desire  for  personal  aggrandizement, 
whicii,  in  the  hero  of  ♦  Paradise  Lost,'  interfere  with  the  interest.  The 
character  of  Satan  engenders  in  the  mind  a  pernicious  casuistry  which 
leads  us  to  weigh  his  faults  with  his  wrongs,  and  to  excuse  the  former 
because  the  latter  exceed  all  measure.  In  the  minds  of  those  who 
consider  that  magnificent  fiction  with  a  religious  feeling,  it  engenders 
something  worse.  But  Prometheus  is,  as  it  were,  the  type  of  the  high- 
est perfection  of  moral  and  intellectual  nature,  impelled  by  the  purest 
and  the  truest  motives  to  the  best  and  noblest  ends. 

This  poem  was  chiefly  written  upon  the  mountainous  ruins  of  the 
Baths  of  Caracalla,  among  the  flowery  glades  and  thickets  of  odorifer- 


236  PREFACE. 

ous  blossoming  trees  which  are  extended  in  ever-winding  labyrinths 
•upon  its  immense  platforms  and  dizzy  arches  suspended  in  the  air. 
The  bright  blue  sky  of  Rome,  and  the  effect  of  the  vigorous  awaken- 
ing of  Spring  in  that  divinest  climate,  and  the  new  life  with  which  it 
drenches  the  spirits  even  to  intoxication,  were  the  inspiration  of  this 
drama. 

The  imagery  which  I  have  employed  will  be  found  in  many  instances 
to  have  been  drawn  from  the  operations  of  the  human  mind,  or  from 
those  external  actions  by  which  they  are  expressed.  This  is  unusual 
in  modern  poetry,  although  Dante  and  Shakspeare  are  full  of  instances 
of  the  same  kind:  Dante  indeed  more  than  any  otlier  poet,  and  with 
greater  success.  But  the  Greek  poets,  as  writers  to  whom  no  resource 
of  awakening  the  sympathy  of  their  cotemporaries  was  unknown, 
were  in  the  habitual  use  of  ihis  power  ,  and  it  is  the  study  of  their 
works  (since  a  higher  merit  would  probably  be  denied  me)  to  which  I 
am  willing  that  my  readers  should  impute  this  singularity. 

One  word  is  due  in  candor  to  the  degree  m  which  the  study  of  co- 
temporary  writings  may  have  tinged  my  composition,  for  such  has 
been  a  topic  of  censure  with  regard  to  poems  far  more  popular,  and 
indeed  more  deservedly  popular,  than  mine.  It  is  impossible  that  any 
one  who  inhabits  the  same  age  with  such  writers  as  those  who  stand 
in  the  foremost  ranks  of  our  own,  can  conscientiously  assure  himself 
that  his  language  and  tone  of  thought  may  not  have  been  modified  by 
the  study  of  the  productions  of  those  extraordinary  irilellects.  It  is 
true  that  not  the  spirit  of  their  genius,  but  the  forms  in  wliich  it  has 
manifested  itself,  are  due  less  to  the  peculiarities  of  their  own  minds 
than  to  the  peculiarity  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  condition  of  the 
minds  among  which  they  have  been  produced.  Thus  a  number  of 
writers  possess  the  form  while  they  want  the  spirit  of  those  whom,  it 
is  alledged,  they  imitate  ;  because  the  former  is  the  endowment  of  the 
age  in  which  they  live,  and  the  latter  must  be  the  uncommunicated 
lightning  of  their  own  mind. 

The  peculiar  style  of  intense  and  comprehensive  imagery  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  modern  literature  of  England  has  not  been,  as  a  gen- 
eral power,  the  product  of  the  imitation  of  any  particular  writer.  The 
mass  of  capabilities  remains  at  every  period  maieially  the  same  ;  the 
circumstances  which  awaken  it  to  action  perpetually  change.  If 
England  were  divided  into  forty  republics,  each  e(}ual  in  population 
and  extent  to  Athens,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  but  that,  under  in- 
stitutions not  more  perfect  than  those  of  Athens,  each  would  produce 
philosophers  and  poets  equal  to  those  who  (if  we  except  Shakspeare) 
have  never  been  surpassed.  We  owe  the  great  writers  of  the  golden 
age  of  our  literature  to  that  fervid  awakening  of  the  public  mind 
which  shook  to  dust  the  oldest  and  most  oppressive  form  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion.  We  owe  Milton  to  the  progress  and  development  of  the 
same  spirit  :  the  sacred  Milton  was,  let  it  ever  be  remembered,  a  re- 
publican, and  a  bold  inquirer  into  morals  and  religion.  The  great 
writers  of  our  own  age  are,  we  have  reason  to  suppose,  the  companions 
and  forerunners  of  some  unimagined  change  in  our  social  condition, 
or  the  opinions  which  cement  it.  The  cloud  of  rnind  is  discharging  its 
collected  lightning,  and  the  equilibrium  between  institutions  and  opin- 
ions is  now  restoring,  or  is  about  to  be  restored. 

As  to  imitation,  poetry  is  a  mimetic  art.  It  creates,  but  it  creates 
by  combination  and  representation.  Poetical  abstractions  are  beauti- 
ful and  new,  not  because  the  portions  of  which  they  are  composed  had 
no  previous  existence  in  the  mind  of  man  or  in  nature,  but  because 
the  whole  produced  by  their  combination  has  some  intelligible  and 
beautiful  analogy  with  those  sources  of  emotion  and  Ihounht,  and 
with  the  cotemporary  condition  of  them  :  one  great  poet  is  a  master- 
piece of  nature,  which  another  not  only  ought  to  study,  but  must 
study.    He  might  as  wisely  and  as  easily  determine  that  his  mind 


PREFACE.  237 

should  no  longer  be  the  mirror  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the  visible  uni- 
verse, as  exclude  from  his  contemplation  the  beautiful  which  exists 
in  the  writings  of  a  great  coiemporary.  Tiie  pretense  of  doing  it 
■would  be  a  presumption  in  any  but  the  greatest  ;  the  effect,  even  in 
him,  would  be  sirained,  unnatural  and  ineffectual.  A  poet  is  the  com- 
bined product  of  such  internal  powers  as  modify  ihe  nature  of  others. 
and  of  such  external  influences  as  excite  and  sustain  these  powers  : 
he  is  not  one,  but  both.  Every  man's  mind  is  in  this  respect  modified 
by  all  the  objects  of  nature  and  art ;  by  every  word  and  every  sugges- 
tion which  he  ever  admitted  to  act  upon  his  consciousness  ;  it  is  the 
mirror  upon  which  all  forms  are  reflected,  and  in  which  they  compose 
one  form.  Poets,  not  otherwise  tiian  philosophers,  painters,  sculptors 
and  musicians,  are,  in  one  sense,  the  creators,  and  in  another,  the  cre- 
ations of  their  age.  From  this  subjeciinn  tiie  loftiest  do  not  escape. 
There  is  a  similarity  between  Homer  and  Ilesiod,  between  JEschylus 
and  Euripedes,  between  Virgil  and  Horace,  between  Dante  and  Pe- 
trarch, between  Shakspeare  and  Fletcher,  between  Dryden  and  Pope  ; 
each  has  a  generic  resemblance  under  which  their  specific  distinctions 
are  arranged.  If  this  similarity  be  the  result  of  imitation,  I  am  willing 
to  confess  that  I  have  imitated. 

Let  this  opportunity  be  conceded  to  me  of  acknowledging  that  I 
have,  what  a  Scotch  philosopher  characteristically  terms,  '*  a  passion 
for  reforming  the  world  :"  what  passion  incited  him  to  write  and  pub- 
lish his  book,  he  omits  to  explain.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  be  damned 
with  Plato  and  Lord  Bacon,  than  go  to  heaven  with  Paley  and  Malthus. 
But  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  I  dedicate  my  poetical  compositions 
solely  to  the  direct  enforcement  of  reform,  or  that  I  consider  them  in 
any  degree  as  containing  a  reasoned  system  on  the  theory  of  imnian 
hfe.  Didactic  poetry  is  my  abhorrence  ;  nothing  can  be  equally  well 
expressed  in  prose  that  is  not  tedious  and  supererogatory  in  verse. 
My  purpose  has  hitherto  been  simply  to  familiarize  the  highly-refined 
imagination  of  the  more  select  classes  of  poetical  readers  with  beauti- 
ful idealisms  of  moral  excellence  —  aware  that  until  the  mind  can 
love  and  admire  and  trust  and  hope  and  endure,  reasoned  principles 
of  moral  conduct  are  seeds  cast  upon  the  highway  of  life,  which  the 
unconscious  passenger  tramples  into  dust,  although  they  would  bear 
the  harvest  of  his  happiness.  Should  I  live  to  accomplish  what  I  pur- 
pose—  that  is,  produce  a  systematic  history  of  what  appear  to  me  to 
be  the  genuine  elements  of  human  society  —  let  not  the  advocates  of 
injustice  and  superstition  flatter  themselves  that  I  should  take^schy- 
lus  rather  than  Plato  as  my  model. 

The  having  spoken  of  myself  with  unaffected  freedom  will  need  little 
apology  witii  the  candid  ;  and  let  the  uncandid  consider  that  they  in- 
jure me  less  than  their  own  hearts  and  minds  by  misrepresentation. 
Whatever  talents  a  person  may  possess  to  amuse  and  instruct  others, 
be  they  ever  so  inconsiderable,  he  is  yet  bound  to  exert  them  :  if  his 
attempt  be  ineffectual,  let  the  punishment  of  an  unaccomplished  pur- 
pose have  been  sufficient ;  let  none  trouble  themselves  to  heap  the 
dust  of  oblivion  upon  his  efforts  ;  the  pile  they  raise  will  betray  his 
grave,  which  might  otherwise  have  been  unknown. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


Prometheus. 

Demogorgon. 

Jupiter. 

The  Earth. 

Ocean. 

Apollo. 

Mercury. 

Hercules 


Asia, 

Pan  the  A,         >  Ocranides. 

lONE, 

The  Phantasm  of  .Iupitkr. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Moon. 

Spirits  of  the  IF  iurs. 

Spirits.     Echoes.     Fauns. 

Furies 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


ACT    I. 

Scene,  a  Ravine  of  icy  Rocks  in  the  Indian  Caucasus.  —  Pko- 
METHEUS  is  discovered  bound  to  the  Precipice.  —  Panthea  and 
loNE  are  seated  at  his  feet. —  Time,  Night.  —  During  the  scene, 
Morning  slowly  breaks. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Monarch  of  gods  and  demons  and  all  spirits 
But  One  who  throng  those  bright  and  rolling  worlds 
Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 
Behold  with  sleepless  eyes  !  regard  this  earth 
Made  multitudinous  with  thy  slaves,  whom  thou 
Requitest  for  knee-worship,  prayer  and  praise 
And  toil  and  hecatombs  of  broken  hearts, 
With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren  hope. 
While  me,  w^ho  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in  hate, 
Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy  scorn, 
O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  revenge. 
Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unsheltered  hours, 
And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 
Till  they  seemed  years  —  torture  and  solitude, 
Scorn  and  despair  —  these  are  mine  empire  : 
More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou  surveyest 
From  thine  unenvied  throne,  oh  mighty  God  ! 
Almighty,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the  shame 
Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 
Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle  baffling  mountain, 
Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured  ;  without  herb, 
Insect  or  beast,  or  shape  or  sound  of  life  — 
Ah  me,  alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope  !    Yet  I  endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth  have  not  the  mountains  felt? 


I  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all  betiding  Sun, 


240  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Has  it  not  seen  ?     The  Sea,  in  storm  or  calm, 
Heaven's  ever-changing  shadow,  spread  below, 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony  ? 
Ah  me,  alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the  spears 

Of  their  moon-freezing  crystals  ;  the  bright  chains 

Eat  with  their  burning  cold  into  my  bones. 

Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from  thy  lips 

His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 

My  heart ;  and  shapeless  sights  come  wandering  by, 

The  ghastly  people  of  the  realm  of  dream. 

Mocking  me  :  and  the  earthqnake-fiends  are  charged 

To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering  wounds 

When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  behind  : 

While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling  throng 

The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 

Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict  me  with  keen  hail. 

And  yet  to  me  vs^elcome  is  day  and  night. 

Whether  one  breaks  the  hoar  frost  of  the  morn. 

Or  starry,  dim  and  slow  the  other  climbs 

The  leaden-colored  East ;  for  then  they  lead 

The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among  whom 

—  As  some  dark  priest  hales  the  reluctant  victim  — 

Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss  the  blood 

From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might  trample  thee 

If  they  disdained  not  such  a  prostrate  slave. 

Disdain  ?    Ah  no !    I  pity  thee.     What  ruin 

Will  hunt  thee  undefended  through  wide  heaven  ! 

How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth  with  terror. 

Gape  like  a  hell  within  !    I  speak  in  grief, 

Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more 

As  then  ere  mi.sery  made  me  wise.     The  curse 

Once  breathed  on  thee  I  would  recall.     Ye  mountains, 

Whose  many-voiced  echoes  through  the  mist 

Of  cataracts  flung  the  thunder  of  that  spell ! 

Ye  icy  springs,  stagnant  with  wrinkling  frost, 

W^hich  vibrated  to  hear  me,  and  then  crept 

Shuddering  through  India  !     Thou  serenest  air, 

Through  which  the  sun  walks  burning  without  beams  ! 

And  ye  swift  whirlwinds,  who  on  poised  wings 

Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  hushed  abyss. 

As  thunder  louder  than  your  own  made  rock 

The  orbed  world  !    If  then  my  words  had  power, 

Though  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil  wish 

Is  dead  within  ;  although  no  memory  be 

Of  what  is  hate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now  ! 

What  was  that  curse  ?  for  ye  aU  heard  me  speak. 

FIRST   VOICE  :   FROM   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 
O'er  the  Earthquake's  couch  we  stood : 

Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears. 
We  trembled  in  our  oiultitude. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  241 


SECOND   VOICE  :    FROM    THE   SPRINGS. 

Thnnderbolts  had  parched  our  water, 
We  had  been  stained  with  bitter  blood, 

And  had  run  mute,  'mid  shrieks  of  slaughter, 
Through  a  city  and  a  solitude. 

THIRD    VOICE  :    FROM    THE    AIR. 

I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose, 
Its  wastes  in  colors  not  their  own  ; 

And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 
Been  cloven  by  many  a  rending  gi-oan. 

FOURTH    VOICE  :    FROM   THE   WHIRLWINDS. 

We  had  soared  beneath  these  mountains 
Unresting  ages  ;  nor  had  thunder. 

Nor  yon  volcano's  flaming  fountains. 
Nor  any  pow^er  above  or  under 
Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

Bat  never  bowed  our  snowy  crest 
As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Never  such  a  sound  before 
To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 
A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 
Leaped  up  from  the  deck  in  agony. 
And  heard,  and  cried,  '  Ah,  woe  is  me  !' 
And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

THIRD   VOICE. 

By  such  dread  words  from  earth  to  heaven 
My  still  realm  was  never  riven  : 
When  its  wound  was  closed,  there  stood 
Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

FOURTH   VOICE. 

And  we  shrank  back  :  for  dreams  of  ruin 
To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 
Made  us  keep  silence  —  thus  —  and  thus  — 
Though  silence  is  as  hell  to  us. 

THE    EARTH. 

The  tongueless  Caverns  of  the  craggy  hills 
Cried,  '  Misery  !'  then  ;  the  hollow  Heaven  replied. 
'  Misery  !'     And  the  Ocean's  purple  waves, 
Climbing  the  land,  howled  to  the  lashing  winds — 
And  the  pale  nations  heard  it  — '  Misery  !' 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  hear  a  sound  of  voices :  not  the  voice 
Which  1  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons  and  thou 
Scorn  him  without  whose  all-enduring  will 
Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove. 
Both  they  and  thou  had  vanished  like  thin  miat 


242  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Unrolled  ou  the  morning  -wind.     Know  ye  not  me, 

The  Titan  ?  he  who  made  his  agony 

The  barrier  to  your  else  all-conqaering  foe  1 

Oh  rock  enbosonied  lawns  and  snow-fed  streams, 

Now  seen  athwart  IVore  vapors,  deep  below, 

Through  whose  o'ershadowing  w^oods  I  -wandered  once 

"With  Asia,  drinking  life  from  her  loved  eyes ; 

Why  scorns  the  spirit  which  informs  ye  now 

To  commune  with  me  ?  me  alone,  who  checked, 

As  one  who  checks  a  fiend  drawn  charioteer, 

The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who  reigns 

Supreme,  and  w^ith  the  groans  of  pining  slaves 

Fills  your  dim  glens  and  liquid  wildernesses  : 

Why  answer  ye  not,  still  ?    Brethren  ! 

THE    EARTH. 

They  dare  not. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who  dares  ?  for  T  would  hear  that  curse  again. 

Ha  !  what  an  awful  whisper  rises  up  ! 

'Tis  scarce  like  sound  :  it  tingles  through  the  frame 

As  lightning  tingles,  hovering  ere  it  strike. 

Speak,  Spirit !  from  thine  inorganic  voice 

I  only  know  that  thou  art  moving  near 

And  love.     How  cursed  1  him  ? 

THE   EARTH. 

How  canst  thou  hear. 
Who  knowest  not  the  language  of  the  dead  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thou  art  a  living  spirit ;  speak  as  they. 

THE    EARTH. 

I  dare  not  speak  like  life,  lest  heaven's  fell  King- 
Should  hear,  and  link  me  to  some  wheel  of  pain 
More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon  1  roll. 
Subtle  thou  art  and  good  ;  and  though  the  gods 
Hear  not  this  voice,  yet  tliou  art  more  than  god, 
Being  wise  and  kind  :  earnestly  hearken  now. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Obscurely  through  my  brain,  like  shadows  dim. 
Sweep  awful  thoughts,  rapid  and  thick.     I  feel 
Faint,  like  one  mingled  in  entwining  love  ; 
Yet  'tis  not  pleasure. 

THE    EARTH. 

No,  thou  canst  not  hear : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
Only  to  those  who  die. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And- what  art  thou, 
O  melancholy  Voice  ?  - 


PROMETHF.US    UNBOUND.  243 

THE    EARTH. 

I  am  the  Earth, 
Thy  mother ;  she  within  whose  stouy  veins, 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose  thin  leaves  trembled  in  the  frozen  air, 
Joy  ran,  as  blood  within  a  living  frame, 
When  thou  didst  from  her  bosom,  like  a  cloud 
Of  glory,  arise,  a  spirit  of  keen  joy  ! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sous  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting  dust, 
And  our  almighty  Tyrant  with  iierce  dread 
Grew  pale,  until  his  thunder  chained  thee  here. 
Then,  see  those  million  worlds  which  bum  and  roll 
Around  us  :  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  sphered  light  wane  in  wide  heaven  ;  the  sea 
Was  lifted  by  strange  tempest,  and  new  fire 
From  earthciuake  rifted  mountains  of  bright  snow 
Shook  its  portentous  hair  beneath  Heaven's  frown  , 
Lightning  and  inundation  vexed  the  plains; 
Blue  thistles  bloomed  in  cities  ;  foodiess  toads 
Within  voluptuous  chambers  panting  crawled  ; 
When  Plague  had  fallen  on  man  and  beast  and  worm, 
And  Famine  ;  and  black  blight  on  herb  and  tree  ; 
And  in  the  corn  and  vines  and  meadow-grass 
Teemed  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining  their  growth,  for  my  wan  breast  w^as  dry 
With  grief;  and  the  thin  air.  my  breath,  was  stained 
With  the  contagion  of  a  mother's  hate 
Breathed  on  her  child's  destroyer:  ay,  I  heard 
Thy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  rememberest  not, 
Yet  my  innumerable  seas  and  streams. 
Mountains  and  caves  and  winds  and  yon  wide  air, 
And  the  inarticulate  people  of  the  dead. 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.     We  meditate 
In  secret  joy  and  liope  those  dreadful  words, 
But  dare  not  speak  tiiem. 

PROMETHEUS. 

"Venerable  mother ! 
All  else  who  live  ainl  suffer  take  fiom  thee 
Some  comfort:  flowers  and  fruits  and  happy  sounds 
And  love,  though  fleeting  ;  these  may  not  be  mine. 
But  mine  own  words,  1  pray,  deny  me  not. 

THE    EARTH. 

They  shall  be  told.     Ere  Babylon  was  dust. 
The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child, 
Met  his  own  image  walking  in  the  garden. 
That  apparition,  sole  of  men.  he  saw. 
For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life  and  death: 
One  that  which  thou  beholdest ;  but  the  other 
Is  underneath  the  grave,  where  do  inhabit 
The  shadows  of  all  forms  that  think  and  live 
Till  death  unite  them  and  they  part  no  more ; 


244  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Dreams  and  the  light  imaginings  of  men, 

And  all  that  faith  creates  or  love  desires, 

Terrible,  strange,  sublime  and  beauteous  shapes. 

There  thou  art,  and  dost  hang,  a  writhing  shade, 

'Mid  whirlwind-peopled  mountains  ;  all  the  gods 

Are  there,  and  all  the  powers  of  nameless  worlds, 

Vast  sceptred  phantoms  ;  heroes,  men  and  beasts ; 

And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom  ; 

And  he,  the  supreme  Tyrant,  on  his  throne 

Of  burning  gold.     Son.  one  of  these  shall  utter 

The  curse  which  all  remember.     Call  at  will 

Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 

Hades  or  Typhon,  or  what  mightier  gods 

From  all-prolitic  Evil,  since  thy  ruin. 

Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  my  prostrate  sons. 

Ask,  and  they  must  reply  :  so  the  revenge 

Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  through  vacant  shades, 

As  rainy  wind  through  the  abandoned  gate 

Of  a  fallen  palace. 

f  PKOMETHKUS. 

Mother,  let  not  aught 
Of  that  which  may  be  evil  pass  again 
My  lips,  or  those  of  aught  resembling  me. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear  ! 

lONE. 

My  w^ings  are  folded  o'er  mine  ears  : 

My  wings  are  crossed  o'er  mine  eyes : 
Yet  througli  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  through  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shape,  a  throng  of  sounds  ; 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee, 
O  thou  of  many  wounds ! 
Near  whom,  for  our  sweet  sister's  sake. 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake. 

PANTHEA. 

The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  underground, 

Earthquake  and  fire  and  mountains  cloven ; 
The  Shape  is  awful  like  the  sound, 

Clothed  in  dark  purple,  star  inwoven. 
A  sceptre  of  pale  gold 

To  stay  steps  proud,  o'er  the  slow  cloud 
His  veined  hand  doth  hold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong, 
Like  one  who  does,  not  suffers,  wrong. 

PHANTASM    OF    JUPITER. 

Why  have  the  secret  powers  of  this  strange  world 
Driven  me,  a  frail  and  empty  phantom,  hither 
On  direst  storms  ?     What  unaccustomed  sounds 
Are  hovering  on  my  lips,  unlike  the  voice 
With  which  oar  pallid  race  hold  ghastly  talk 
In  darkness  ?    And,  proud  suflferer,  who  art  thou  ? 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  245 

PROMETHEUS. 

Tremendous  Image  !  as  thou  art  must  be 
He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.     I  am  his  foe, 
The  Titan.     Speak  the  words  which  I  would  hear, 
Although  no  thought  inform  thine  empty  voice. 

THE    EARTH. 

Listen  !    And  though  your  echoes  must  be  mute, 
Gray  mountains  and  old  woods  and  haunted  springs. 
Prophetic  caves  and  isle-surrounding  streams. 
Rejoice  to  hear  what  yet  ye  can  not  speak. 

PHANTASM. 

A  spirit  seizes  me  and  speaks  within  : 
It  tears  me  as  fire  tears  a  thunder-cloud. 

PANTHEA. 

See,  how  he  lifts  his  mighty  looks  !  —  the  heaven 
Darkens  above. 

ZONE. 

He  speaks  !  O  shelter  me  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  see  the  curse  on  gestures  proud  and  cold, 
And  looks  of  firm  defiance  and  calm  hate, 
And  such  despair  as  mocks  itself  with  smiles, 
Written  as  on  a  scroll :  yet  speak  —  oh  speak  ! 

PHANTASM. 

Fiend,  I  defy  thee  !  with  a  calm,  fixed  mind, 
All  that  thou  canst  infiict  I  bid  thee  do  ; 

Foul  Tyrant  both  of  gods  and  humankind, 
One  only  being  shalt  thou  not  subdue. 

Rain  then  thy  plagues  upon  me  here, 

Ghastly  disease  and  phreusying  fear  : 

And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 

Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 
Lightning  and  cutting  hail  and  legioned  forms 
Of  furies  driving  by  upon  the  wounding  storms. 

Ay,  do  thy  worst.     Thou  art  ouuiipotent. 

O'er  all  things  but  thyself  I  gave  thee  power. 

And  my  own  will.     Be' thy  swift  mischiefs  sent 
To  blast  mankind,  from  yon  ethereal  tower. 

Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 

In  darkness  over  those  I  love  : 

On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 

The  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate; 
And  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony 
This  undeclining  head  while  thou  must  reign  on  high. 

But  thou,  who  art  the  God  and  Lord  :  O,  thou 
Who  fillest  with  thy  soul  this  world  of  woe, 

To  whom  all  things  of  earth  and  heaven  do  bow 
In  fear  and  worship  :  all-prevailing  foe  ! 


2'46  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

I  curse  thee  !  let  a  sufferer's  curse 

Clasp  thee,  his  torturer,  like  remorse ! 

Till  thine  infinity  shall  be 

A  robe  of  envenomed  agony  ; 
And  thine  omnipotence  a  crown  of  pain, 
To  cling  like  burning  gold  round  thy  dissolving  brain. 

Heap  on  thy  soul,  by  virtue  of  this  curse, 

111  deeds,  then  be  thou  damned,  beholding  good  ; 

Both  infinite  as  is  the  universe. 

And  thou  and  thy  self-torturing  solitude. 

An  awful  image  of  calm  power 

Though  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 

Come  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 

That  which  thou  art  intenially. 
And  after  many  a  false  and  fruitless  crime, 
Scorn  track  thy  lagging  fall  through  boundless  space  and  time ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Were  these  my  words,  O  parent  ? 

THE   EARTH. 

They  were  thine. 

PROMETHEUS. 

It  doth  repent  me  :  words  are  quick  and  vain ; 
Grief  for  a  while  is  blind,  and  so  was  mine. 
I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain. 

THE    EARTH. 

Misery,  oh  misery  to  me, 

That  Jove  at  length  should  vanquish  thee. 

Wail,  howl  aloud.  Land  and  Sea, 

The  Earth's  rent  heart  shall  answer  ye. 

Howl,  Spirits  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Your  refuge,  your  defence,  lies  fallen  and  vanquished. 

FIRST    ECHO. 

Lies  fallen  and  vanquished  ? 

SECOND    ECHO. 

Fallen  and  vanquished ! 

lONE. 

Fear  not :  'tis  but  some  passing  spasm, 

The  Titan  is  unvanquished  still. 
But  see,  where  through  the  azure  chasm 

Of  yon  forked  and  snowy  hill 
TrampUng  the  slant  winds  on  high 

With  golden-sandaled  feet,  that  glow 
Under  plumes  of  purple  dye, 
Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 

A  Shape  comes  now, 
Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 
A  serpent-cinctured  wand. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  247 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis  Jove's  world-wandering  herald,  Mercury. 

lONE. 

And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 

And  iron  wings  that  climb  the  wind 
Whom  the  frowning  god  represses 

Like  vapors  steaming  up  behind, 
Clanging  loud  an  endless  crowd  — 

PANTHEA. 

These  are  Jove's  tempest-walking  hounds, 
Whom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood. 
When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 

He  bursts  heaven's  bounds. 

lONE. 

Are  they  now  led,  from  the  thin  dead 
On  new  pangs  to  be  fed  ? 

PANTHEA. 

The  Titan  looks  as  ever  —  firm,  not  proud. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Ha !  I  scent  life  ! 

SECOND    FURY. 

Let  me  but  look  into  his  eyes  ! 

THIRD    FURY. 

The  hope  of  torturing  him  smells  like  a  heap 
Of  corpses  to  a  death  bird  after  battle. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Darest  thou  delay,  O  herald  ?  take  cheer,  hounds 
Of  hell :  what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  .soon 
Should  make  us  food  and  sport  —  who  can  please  long 
The  Omnipotent? 

MERCURY. 

Back  to  your  towers  of  iron, 
And  gnash  beside  the  streams  of  fire,  and  wail 
Your  foodless  teeth.     Geryou,  arise  !  and  Gorgon, 
Chimaera,  and  tliou  Spliinx,  subtlest  of  fiends, 
Who  ministered  to  Thebes  Heaven's  poisoned  wine, 
Unnatural  love,  and  more  unnatural  hate  : 
These  shall  perform  your  task. 

FIRST  FURY. 

Oh,  mercy !  mercy ! 
We  die  with  our  desire ;  drive  us  not  back ! 

MERCURY. 

Crouch  then  in  silence. 

Awful  Sufferer ! 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  great  Father's  will  driven  down, 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 


248  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Alas  !  I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 

That  I  can  do  no  more  :  aye  from  thy  sight 

Returning,  for  a  season,  heaven  seems  hell, 

So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and  day, 

Smiling  reproach.     Wise  art  thou,  firm  and  good. 

But  vainly  vi^ouldst  stand  forth  alone  in  strife 

Against  the  Omnipotent ;  as  yon  clear  lamps 

That  measure  and  divide  the  weary  years 

From  which  there  is  no  refuge,  long  have  taught. 

And  long  must  teach.     Even  now  thy  Torturer  arms 

With  the  strange  might  of  unimagined  pains 

The  pow^ers  who  scheme  slovs^  agonies  in  Hell, 

And  my  commission  is  to  lead  them  here. 

Or  what  more  subtle,  foul  or  savage  fiends 

People  the  abyss,  and  leave  them  to  their  task. 

Be  it  not  so  !  there  is  a  secret  known 

To  thee,  and  to  none  else  of  living  things. 

Which  may  transfer  the  sceptre  of  wide  heaven. 

The  fear  of  which  perplexes  the  Supreme  : 

Clothe  it  in  words,  and  bid  it  clasp  his  throne 

In  intercession  ;  bend  thy  soul  in  prayer. 

And  like  a  suppliant  in  some  gorgeous  fane. 

Let  the  will  kneel  w^ithin  thy  haughty  heart : 

For  benefits  and  meek  submission  tame 

The  fiercest  and  the  mightiest. 

PROMETHKUS. 

Evil  minds 
Change  good  to  their  own  nature.     I  gave  all 
He  has  ;  and  in  return  he  chains  me  here 
Years,  ages,  night  and  day  :  whether  the  Sun 
Split  my  parched  skin,  or  in  the  moony  night 
The  crystal-winged  snow  chng  round  my  hair : 
While  my  beloved  race  is  trampled  down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such  is  the  tyrant's  recompense  :  'tis  just : 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good ; 
And  for  a  world  bestowed,  or  a  friend  lost, 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame  ;  not  gratitude  : 
He  but  requites  me  for  his  own  misdeed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach  which  breaks 
With  bitter  stings  the  light  sleep  of  Revenge. 
Submission,  thou  dost  know  I  can  not  try  ; 
For  what  submission  but  that  fatal  word, 
The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity. 
Like   the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword. 
Which  trembles  o'er  his  crown,  would  he  accept. 
Or  could  1  yield  ?     Which  yet  I  will  not  yield. 
Let  others  Hatter  Crime,  where  it  sits  throned 
In  brief  Omnipotence  :  secure  are  they  : 
For  Justice  when  triumphant  will  weep  down 
Pity,  not  punishment,  on  her  own  wTongs, 
Too  much  avenged  by  those  who  err.     I  wait. 
Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  249 

Which  since  we  spake  is  even  nearer  now. 
But  hark,  the  hell-hounds  clamor.     Fear  delay  ! 
Behold  !  Heaven  lowers  under  thy  Father's  frown. 

MERCURY. 

Oh,  that  we  might  be  spared  :  I  to  inflict. 
And  thou  to  suffer !  Once  more  answer  me  : 
Thou  knowest  not  the  period  of  Jove's  power  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  know  but  this,  that  it  must  come. 

MERCURY. 

Alas! 
Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come  of  pain  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

They  last  while  Jove  must  reign,  nor  more  nor  less 
Do  I  desire  or  fear. 

MERCURY. 

Yet  pause,  and  plunge 
Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time, 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age. 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant  mind 
Flags  wearily  in  its  unending  flight, 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelterless  ; 
Perchance  it  has  not  numbered  the  slow  years 
Which  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  unreprieved  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Perchance  no  thought  can  count  them,  yet  they  pass. 

MERCUIiY. 

If  thou  might'st  dwell  among  the  gods  the  while, 
Lapped  in  voluptuous  joy  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  would  not  quit 
This  bleak  ravine,  these  unrepentant  pains. 

MERCURY. 

Alas  !  I  wonder  at  yet  pity  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pity  the  self  despising  slaves  of  Heaven, 
Not  me,  within  w^hose  mind  sits  peace  serene, 
As  light  in  the  sun,  throned  :  how  vain  is  talk  ! 
Call  up  tlie  fiends. 

lONE. 

O,  sister,  look!     White  fire 
Has  cloven  to  the  roots  yon  huge  snow-loaded  cedar ; 
How  fearfully  God's  thunder  how^ls  behind  ! 

MERCURY. 

I  must  obey  his  words  and  thine :  alas ! 
Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart ! 


(260  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

PANTHEA. 

See  where  the  child  of  Heaven  with  winged  feet 
Runs  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  dawn. 

lONE. 

Dear  sister,  close  thy  plumes  over  thine  eyes 
Lest  thou  behold  and  die  :  they  come  :  they  come 
Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  countless  wings, 
And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 


Immortal  Titan ! 


FIRST   FURY. 
SECOND   FURY. 


Prometheus  I 


THIRD    FURY. 

Champion  of  Heaven's  slaves! 

PROMETHEUS. 

He  whom  some  dreadful  voice  invokes  is  here, 
Prometheus,  the  chained  Titan.     Horrible  forms, 
W  hat  and  who  are  ye  ?     Never  yet  there  came 
Phantasms  so  foul  through  monster- teeming  hell 
From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove  ; 
While  I  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 
Methinks  I  grow  like  what  I  contemplate, 
And  laugh  and  stare  in  loathsome  sympathy. 

FIRST    FURY. 

"We  are  the  ministers  of  pain  and  fear. 
And  disappointment,  and  mistrust,  and  hate, 
And  clinging  crime  ;  and  as  lean  dogs  pursue 
Through  w^ood  and  lake  some  struck  and  sobbing  fawn. 
We  track  all  things  that  weep  and  bleed  and  live 
When  the  gi-eat  King  betrays  them  to  our  will. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Oh  !  many  fearful  natures  in  one  name, 
I  kno^v  ye ;  and  these  lakes  and  echoes  know 
The  darkness  and  the  clangor  of  your  wings. 
But  w^hy  more  hideous  than  your  loathed  selves 
Gather  ye  up  in  legions  from  the  deep  ? 

SECOND   FURY. 

We  knew  not  that;  Sisters,  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Can  aught  exult  in  its  deformity  ? 

SECOND   FURY. 

The  beauty  of  delight  makes  lovers  glad, 
Gazing  on  one  another :  so  are  we. 
As  from  the  ro.=e  which  the  pale  priestess  kneels 
To  gather  for  her  festal  crown  of  flowers 
The  aerial  crimson  falls,  flushing  her  cheek. 
So  from  our  victim's  destined  agony 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  251' 

The  shade  which  is  our  form  invests  us  round, 
Else  we  are  shapeless  as  our  mother  Night. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  laugh  your  pow^er,  and  his  who  sent  you  here, 
To  lowest  scorn.     Pour  forth  the  cup  of  pain. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Thou  thinkest  we  will  rend  thee  bone  from  bone, 
And  nerve  from  nerve,  working  like  fire  within  ? 

PROMETHKUS. 

Pain  is  my  element,  as  hate  is  thine  ; 
Ye  rend  me  now  :  I  care  not. 

SECOND    FURY. 

Dost  imagine 
We  wrill  but  laugh  into  thy  lidless  eyes  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  w^eigh  not  what  ye  do  but  what  ye  suffer, 
Being  evil.     Cruel  v^^as  the  power  \vhich  called 
You,  or  aught  else  so  wretched,  into  light. 

THIRD    FURY. 

Thou  think'st  we  will  live  through  thee,  one  by  one. 
Like  animal  life,  and  though  we  can  obscure  not 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we  will  dwell 
Beside  it.  like  a  vain  loud  multitude 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men  : 
That  we  will  be  dread  thought  beneath  thy  brain, 
And  foul  desire  round  thine  astonished  heart. 
And  blood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins 
Crawling  like  agony. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why,  ye  are  thus  now  ; 
Yet  am  I  king  over  myself  and  rule 
The  torturing  and  contiicting  thiongs  within, 
As  Jove  rules  you  when  Hell  grows  mutinous. 

CHORUS   OF    FURIES. 

From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
Where  the  night  has  its  grave,  and  the  morning  its  birth, 

Come,  come,  come  ! 
Oh,  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream  of  your  mirth, 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin  ;  and  ye 
Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the  sea, 
And  clo.se  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's  track 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  Ibodless  wreck  ; 
Come,  come,  come  ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold  and  red, 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead ; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning  : 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  Hashes 
When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning  : 


252  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense-enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel : 
Leave  hell's  secrets,  half  unchanted, 

To  the  maniac  dreamer  ;  cruel 
More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 

Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come  ! 
We  are  steaming  up  from  hell's  wide  gate, 
And  we  burden  the  blasts  of  the  atmosphere, 
But  vainly  we  toil  till  ye  come  here. 

lONE, 

Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  new  wings. 

PANTHEA. 

These  solid  mountains  quiver  with  the  sound 
Even  as  the  tremulous  air :  their  shadows  make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black  than  night. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Your  call  was  as  a  winged  car, 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far ; 
It  rapt  us  from  red  gulfs  of  war. 

SECOND    FURY. 

From  wide  cities,  famine-wasted  ; 

THIRD    FURY. 

Groans  half  heard,  and  blood  untasted  ; 

FOURTH    FURY. 

Kingly  conclaves,  stern  and  cold. 

Where  blood  with  gold  is  bought  and  sold  ; 

FIFTH    FURY. 

From  the  furnace,  white  and  hot, 
In  which  — 

A   FURY. 

Speak  not ;  whisper  not : 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell, 
But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 

The  stern  of  thought ; 
He  yet  defies  the  deepest  power  of  hell. 

FURY. 

Tear  the  vail ! 

ANOTHER   FURY. 

It  is  torn. 

CHORUS. 

The  pale  stars  of  the  mom 
Shine  on  a  misery  dire  to  be  borne. 
Dost  thou  faint,  mighty  Titan  ?    We  laugh  thee  to  scorn. 
Dost  thou  boast  the  clear  knowledge  thou  waken'dst  for  man  ? 
Then  was  kindled  within  him  a  thirst  which  outran 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  253 

Those  perishing  waters  :  a  thii-st  of  fierce  fever, 
Hope,  love,  doubt,  desire,  which  consume  him  for  ever. 
One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth, 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth  ; 
His  words  outlived  him,  like  swift  poison 

Withering  up  truth,  peace  and  pity. 
Look  !  where  round  the  w^ide  horizon 

Many  a  million-peopled  city 
Vomits  smoke  in  the  bright  air. 
Mark  that  outcry  of  despair  ! 
'Tis  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost 

Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled  : 
Look  again  !  the  flames  almost 

To  a  glow-wornr  s  lamp  have  dwindled  ; 
The  survivors  round  the  embers 
Gather  in  dread. 

Joy,  joy,  joy ! 
Past  ages  crowd  on  thee,  but  each  one  remembers  ; 
And  the  future  is  dark,  and  the  present  is  spread 
Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumberless  head. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 

From  his  white  and  quivering  brow. 

Grant  a  little  respite  now  : 

See  !  a  disenchanted  nation 

Springs  like  day  from  desolation  ; 

To  Truth  its  state  is  dedicate, 

And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate  ; 

A  legioned  band  of  linked  brothers, 

Whom  Love  calls  children  — 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

'Tis  another's. 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin  ! 
'Tis  the  vintage-time  for  death  and  sin. 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  within  : 
Till  despair  smothers 
The  struggling  world,  which  slaves  and  tyrants  win. 

[All  the  Furies  vanish,  except  one 

lONE. 

Hark,  sister  !  what  a  low  yet  dreadful  groan 
duite  unsuppressed  is  tearing  up  the  heart 
Of  the  good  Titan,  as  storms  tear  the  deep, 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland  caves  ! 
Darest  thou  observe  how  the  fiends  torture  him  ? 

PANTHEA. 

Alas  !  I  looked  forth  twice,  but  will  no  more. 

lONE. 

What  didst  thou  see  ? 

PANTHEA. 

A  woeful  sight  :  a  youth 
With  patient  looks  nailed  to  a  crucifix. 


254  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

lONE. 

What  next  ? 

PANTHEA. 

The  heaven  around,  the  earth  below 
Was  peopled  with  thick  shapes  of  human  death, 
All  horrible,  and  wrought  by  human  hands. 
And  some  appeared  the  work  of  human  hearts. 
For  men  were  slowly  killed  by  frowns  and  smiles : 
And  other  sights  too  foul  to  speak  and  live 
Were  wandering  by.     Let  us  not  tempt  worse  fear 
By  looking  forth  :  those  groans  are  grief  enough. 

FURY. 

Behold  an  emblem  :  those  w^ho  do  endure 

Deep  wrongs  for  man,  and  scorn  and  chains,  but  heap 

Thousandfold  torment  on  themselves  and  him. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Remit  the  anguish  of  that  lighted  stare  ; 

Close  those  wan  lips  ;  let  that  thorn-wounded  brow 

Stream  not  with  blood  ;  it  mingles  with  thy  tears ! 

Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  peace  and  death, 

So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  crucifix, 

So  those  pale  fingers  play  not  with  thy  gore. 

O,  horrible  !     Thy  name  I  w^ill  not  speak. 

It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  see 

The  wise,  the  mild,  the  lofty  and  the  ju.st. 

Whom  thy  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to  thee, 

Some  hunted  by  foul  lies  from  their  heart's  home, 

An  early-chosen,  late-lamented  home; 

As  hooded  ounces  cling  to  the  driven  hind  ; 

Some  linked  to  corpses  in  unwholesome  cells  : 

Some  —  Hear  I  not  the  multitude  laugh  loud  ?  — 

Impaled  in  lingering  fire  :  and  mighty  realms 

Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles. 

Whose  sons  are  kneaded  down  in  common  blood 

By  the  red  light  of  their  own  bumiug  homes. 

FURY. 

Blood  thou  canst  see,  and  fire  ;  and  canst  hear  groans  ; 
Worse  things  unheard,  unseen,  remain  behind. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Worse  ? 

FURY. 

In  each  human  heart  terror  survives 
The  ravin  it  has  gorged  :  the  loftiest  fear 
All  that  they  would  disdain  to  think  were  true  : 
Hypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship  now  outworn. 
They  dare  not  devise  good  for  man's  estate, 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not  dare. 
The  good  want  power,  but  to  weep  barren  tears. 
The  powerful  goodness  want :  worse  need  for  them. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  255 

The  wise  want  love  ;  and  those  who  love  want  wisdom ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill. 
Many  are  strong  and  rich,  and  would  be  just, 
But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow-men 
As  if  none  felt :  they  know  not  what  they  do. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy  words  are  like  a  cloud  of  winged  snakes ; 
And  yet  I  pity  those  they  torture  not. 

FURY. 

Thou  pitiest  them  ?  I  speak  no  more  !  [  Vanishes. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Ah  woe ! 
Ah  woe  !    Alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 
I  close  my  tearless  eyes,  but  see  more  clear 
Thy  works  within  my  woe  illumined  mind, 
Thou  subtle  Tyrant !     Peace  is  in  the  grave. 
The  gr-ave  hides  all  things  beautiful  and  good  : 
I  am  a  god  and  can  not  find  it  there, 
Nor  would  I  seek  it :  for,  though  dread  revenge, 
This  is  defeat,  fierce  King  !  not  victory. 
The  sights  with  which  thou  torturest  gird  my  soul 
With  new  endurance,  till  the  hour  arrives 
When  they  shall  be  no  types  of  things  which  are. 

PANTHEA. 

Alas  !  what  sawest  thou  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

There  are  two  woes : 
To  speak  and  to  behold  ;  thou  spare  me  one. 
Names  are  there  Nature's  sacred  watchwords,  they 
Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry ; 
The  nations  thronged  around,  and  cried  aloud, 
As  with  one  voice,  "  Truth,  liberty  and  love  !" 
Suddenly  fierce  confusion  fell  from  heaven 
Among  them  :  there  was  strife,  deceit  and  fear: 
Tyrants  rushed  in,  and  did  divide  the  spoil. 
This  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  1  saw. 

THE    EARTH. 

I  felt  thy  torture,  son,  with  such  mixed  joy 

As  pain  and  virtue  give.     To  cheer  thy  state 

I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits 

Whose  homes  are  the  dim  caves  of  human  thought, 

And  who  inhabit,  as  birds  wing  the  wind, 

Its  world-surrounding  ether  :  they  behold 

Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 

The  future  :  may  they  speak  comfort  to  thee  ! 

PANTHEA. 

Look,  sister,  where  a  troop  of  spirits  gather. 

Like  flocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  delightful  weather, 

Thronging  in  the  blue  air  ! 


256  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


10  NE. 

And  see  !  more  come, 
Like  fountain-vapors  when  the  winds  are  dumb, 
That  climb  up  the  ravine  in  scattered  lines. 
And  hark  !  is  it  the  music  of  the  pines  ? 
Is  it  the  lake  ?    Is  it  the  waterfall  ? 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis  something  sadder,  sweeter  far  than  all. 

CHORUS    OF    SPIRITS. 

From  unremembered  ages  w^e 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-oppressed  mortality; 
And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought : 
Be  it  dim  and  dank  and  gray, 
Like  a  storm-extinguished  day, 
Traveled  o'er  by  dying  gleams ; 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams. 

Silent,  liquid  and  serene  ; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind, 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave. 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  through  all  above  the  grave ; 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Through  the  boundless  element: 
Thence  we  bear  the  prophecy 
"Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee  ! 

lONE. 

More  yet  come,  one  by  one  ;  the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 

FIRST    SPIRIT. 

On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 

I  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 

'Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 

From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn. 

From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn, 

Gathering  round  me,  onward  borne, 

There  was  mingled  many  a  cry  — 

"Freedom!"  "Hope!"  "Death!"  "Victory! 

Till  they  faded  through  the  sky  ; 

And  one  sound  above,  around, 

One  sound  beneath,  around,  above, 

Was  moving  :  'twas  the  soul  of  love  ; 

'Twas  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 

Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

SECOND   SPIRIT. 

A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea, 
Which  rocked  beneath,  immovably  ; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  257 

Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud, 
Between  with  many  a  captive  cloud 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Each  by  lightning  riven  in  half: 
I  heard  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh  .- 
Mighty  fleets  were  strown  like  chaflF 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

THIRU    SPIRIT. 

I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed, 

And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 

Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed, 

When  a  Dream  witli  plumes  of  flame 

To  his  pillow  hovering  came. 

And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 

Which  had  kindled  long  ago 

Pity,  eloquence  and  woe  ; 

And  the  world  awhile  below 

Wore  the  shade  its  lustre  made. 

It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 

As  Desire's  lightning  feet : 

I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow. 

Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

FOURTH    SPIRIT. 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love  adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blis.ses. 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  Thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  f;  om  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy  bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be  ; 

But  from  the.-^e  create  he  can 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 

Nurslings  of  immortality ! 

One  of  these  awakened  nae, 

And  I  sped  to  succor  thee. 

lONE. 

Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the  east  and  west 

Come,  as  two  doves  to  one  beloved  nest. 

Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air 

On  swift  still  wings  glide  down  the  atmosphere? 

And  hark  !  their  sweet,  sad  voices  !  'tis  despair 

Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in  sound. 

PANTHKA. 

Can.st  thou  speak,  si.ster  ?  all  my  words  are  drowned. 

17 


258  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


Their  beauty  e^ives  me  voice.     See  how  they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skiey  grain, 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold  : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's  fire. 

CHORUS    OF   SPIRITS. 

Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  Love  ? 

FIFTH    SPIRIT. 

As  over  wide  dominions 
I  sped,  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings  the  wide  air's  wilder- 


That  planet-ci-ested  Shape  swept  by  on  lightning-braided  pin- 
ions, 

Scattering  the  liquid  joy  of  life  from  his  ambrosial  tresses: 

His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light ;  but  as  I  past  'twas 
fading, 

And  hollow  Ruin  yawned  behind :  great  sages  bound  in  mad- 
ness. 

And  headless  patriots  and  pale  youths  who  perished  unupbraid- 
i»g. 

Gleamed  in  the  night.  I  wandered  o'er,  till  thou,  O  king  of  Sad- 
ness, 

Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to  recollected  gladness. 

SIXTH    SPIRIT. 

Ah,  sister  !  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing  : 

It  v^^alks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on  the  air. 

But  treads  with  silent  footstep,  and  fans  with  .silent  wing 

The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts  the  best  and  gentlest  beai* ; 

Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fanning  plumes  above, 

And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  .soft  and  busy  feet. 

Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy.  and  call  the  monster.  Love, 

And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as  he  whom  now  we  greet. 

CHORU.S. 

Though  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be, 
Following  him,  destroyinyly, 

On  Death's  white  and  winged  steed, 
Which  the  fleetest  can  not  flee. 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed, 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair. 
Like  a  tempest  through  the  air, 
Thou  shalt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 

PROMETHEUS. 

spirits  !  Jiow  know  ye  this  shall  be  ? 

CHORUS. 

In  the  atmosphere  we  breathe. 
As  buds  glow  red  when  the  snow-storms  flee, 

From  Spring  gathering  up  beneath. 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder  brake, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  259 

And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know- 
That  the  white-thorn  soon  will  blow : 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase. 

Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 

To  shepherd-boys,  the  prophecy 

Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee  ! 

lONE. 

Where  are  the  spirits  fled  ? 

PANTHEA. 

Only  a  sense 
Remains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  the  inspired  voice  and  lute 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute, 
Which  through  the  deep  and  labyrinthine  soul. 
Like  echoes  through  long  caverns,  wind  and  roll. 

PUOMETHEUS. 

How  fair  these  air-born  shapes  !  and  yet  I  feel 

Most  vain  ail  hope  but  love  ;  and  thou  art  far, 

Asia!  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 

W'ert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 

Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust. 

All  things  are  still :  alas  !  how  heavily 

This  quiet  morning  weighs  upon  my  heart ! 

Though  I  should  dream  I  couid  even  sleep  with  grief, 

If  slumber  were  denied  not.     I  would  fain 

Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 

The  savior  and  the  strength  of  suffering  man, 

Or  sink  into  the  original  gulf  of  things  : 

There  is  no  agony  and  no  solace  left ; 

Earth  can  console.  Heaven  can  torment  no  more. 

PANTHEA. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  one  who  watches  thee 
The  cold  dark  night,  and  never  sleeps  but  when 
The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  on  her  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  said  all  hope  was  vain  but  love  :  thou  lovest. 

PANTHEA. 

Deeply  in  truth  ;  but  the  eastern  star  looks  white, 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The  scene  of  her  sad  exile  ;  rugged  once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine  ; 
But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and  herbs. 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds,  which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the  ether 
Of  her  transforming  presence,  which  would  fade 
If  it  were  mingled  not  with  thine.     Farewell  ! 


END    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT. 


260  PROMETHEUS     UNBOUND. 

ACT    II. 

SCENE  I. 

Moi'ning.  —  A  lonely   Vale  in  the  Indian  Caucasus. 

Asia,  alone. 

ASIA. 

From  all  the  blasts  of  heaven  thou  hast  descended : 

Yes,  like  a  spirit,  like  a  thought,  which  makes 

Unwonted  tears  throng  to  the  horny  eyes, 

And  beatings  haunt  the  desolated  heart, 

Which  should  have  learned  repose  :  thou  hast  descended 

Cradled  in  tempests  ;  thou  dost  wake,  O  Spring  ! 

O  child  of  many  winds  !     As  suddenly 

Thou  comest  as  the  memory  of  a  dream, 

Which  now  is  sad  because  it  hath  been  sweet; 

Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  riseth  up 

As  from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden  clouds 

The  desert  of  our  life. 

This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour  ; 

At  sunrise  thou  shouldat  come,  sweet  sister  mine. 

Too  long  desired,  too  long  delaying,  come  ! 

How  like  death  worms  the  wingless  moments  crawl ! 

The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering  still 

Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn 

Beyond  the  purple  mountains  :  through  a  chasm 

Of  wind  divided  mist  the  darker  lake 

Reflects  it ;  now  it  vi-anes  ;  it  gleams  again 

As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning  threads 

Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air : 

'Tis  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloud  like  snow 

The  ro.seate  sunlight  quivers :  hear  I  not 

The  jEolian  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 

Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 

Panthea  enters. 

I  feel,  I  see 
Those  eyes  which  burn  through  smiles  that  fade  in  tears. 
Like  stars  half-quenched  in  mists  of  silver  dew. 
Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live. 
How  late  thou  art !  the  sphered  sun  had  climbed 
The  sea ;  my  heart  was  sick  with  hope,  before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy  belated  plumes. 

PANTHEA. 

Pardon,  great  sister!  but  my  wings  were  faint 
With  the  delight  of  a  remembered  dream. 
As  are  the  noontide  plumes  of  summer  winds 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  261 

Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont  to  sleep 

Peacefully,  and  awake  refreshed  and  calm, 

Before  the  sacred  Titan's  fall  and  thy 

Unhappy  love  had  made,  through  use  and  pity, 

Both  love  and  woe  familiar  to  my  heart 

As  they  had  grown  to  thine  :  erewhile  I  slept 

Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 

Within  dim  bowers  of  green  and  purple  moss. 

Our  young  Zone's  soft  and  milky  arms 

Locked  then,  as  now,  behind  my  dark,  moist  hair, 

While  my  shut  eyes  and  cheek  were  pressed  w^ithin 

The  folded  depth  of  her  life-breathing  bosom  : 

But  not  as  now,  since  I  am  made  the  wind 

Which  fails  beneath  the  music  that  1  bear 

Of  thy  most  wordless  converse  ;  since  dissolved 

Itito  the  sense  with  which  love  talks,  my  rest 

Was  troubled  and  yet  sweet ;  my  waking  hours 

Too  full  of  care  and  pain. 

ASIA. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes, 
And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

PANTHEA. 

As  I  have  said, 
With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  slept. 
The  mountain  mists,  condensing  at  our  voice 
Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy  flakes, 
From  the  keen  ice  shielding  our  linked  sleep. 
Then  two  Dreams  came.     One,  I  remember  not. 
But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound-worn  limbs 
Fell  from  Prometheus,  and  the  azure  night 
Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 
Which  lives  unchanged  within,  and  his  voice  fell 
Like  music  which  makes  giddy  the  dim  brain, 
Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy  : 
"  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  the  world 
With  loveliness  —  more  fair  than  aught  but  her 
Whose  shadow  thou  art  —  lift  thine  eyes  on  me." 
I  lifted  them  :  the  overpowering  light 
Of  that  immortal  shape  was  shadowed  o'er 
By  love ;  which,  from  his  soft  and  flowing  limbs, 
And  passion-parted  lips,  and  keen,  faint  eyes, 
Steamed  forth  like  vaporous  fire  ;  an  atmosphere 
Which  wrapped  me  in  its  all-dissolving  power, 
As  the  warm  ether  of  the  morning  sun 
Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wandering  dew. 
I  saw  not,  heard  not,  moved  not  —  only  felt 
His  presence  flow  and  mingle  through  my  blood 
Till  it  became  his  life,  and  his  grew  mine. 
And  I  was  thus  absorbed,  until  it  passed, 
And  like  the  vapors  when  the  sun  sinks  down, 
Gathering  again  in  drops  upon  the  pines. 
And  tremulous  as  they,  in  the  deep  night 


262  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

My  being  was  condensed  ;  and  as  the  rays 

Of  thought  were  slowly  gathered,  I  could  hear 

His  voice,  whose  accents  lingered  ere  they  died 

Like  footsteps  of  weak  melody  :  thy  name 

Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard 

Of  what  might  be  articulate  ;  though  still 

I  listened  through  the  night  when  sound  was  none. 

lone  wakened  then,  and  said  to  me  : 

"  Canst  thou  divine  what  troubles  nie  to-night  ? 

I  always  knew  what  I  desired  before, 

Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 

But  now  I  can  not  tell  thee  what  I  seek  ; 

I  know  not :  something  sweet,  since  it  is  sweet 

Even  to  desire  ;  it  is  thy  sport,  false  sister ; 

Thou  hast  discovered  some  enchantment  old. 

Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as  1  slept 

And  mingled  it  with  thine  :  for  when  just  now 

We  kissed,  I  felt  vs'ithin  thy  parted  lips 

The  sweet  air  that  sustained  me,  and  the  warmth 

Of  the  life-blood,  for  loss  of  which  I  faint, 

Quivered  between  our  intertwining  arms." 

I  answered  not,  for  the  eastern  star  grew^  pale, 

But  fled  to  thee. 

ASJA. 

Thou  speakest,  but  thy  words 
Are  as  the  air :  I  feel  them  not :  oh  lift 
Thine  eyes,  that  I  may  read  his  written  soul ! 

PANTHEA. 

I  lift  them,  though  they  droop  beneath  the  load 
Of  that  they  would  express  :  what  canst  thou  see 
Bat  thine  own  fairest  shadow  imaged  there  ? 

ASIA. 

Thine  eyes  are  like  the  deep,  blue,  boundless  heaven 
Contracted  to  two  circles  underneath 
Their  long,  tine  lashes  ;  dark,  far.  measureless, 
Orb  within  orb  and  line  through  line  inwoven. 

PANTHEA. 

Why  lookest  thou  as  if  a  spirit  passed  ? 


There  is  a  change  ;  beyond  their  inmost  depth 

I  see  a  shade,  a  shape :  'tis  he.  arrayed 

In  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles,  which  spread 

Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrounded  morn. 

Prometheus,  it  is  thine  !  depart  not  yet ! 

Say  not  those  smiles  that  we  shall  meet  again 

Within  that  bright  pavilion  which  their  beams 

Shall  build  on  the  waste  world  ?     The  dream  is  told. 

What  shape  is  that  between  us  ?    Its  rude  hair 

Roughens  the  wind  that  lifts  it,  its  regard 

Is  wild  and  quick,  yet  'tis  a  thing  of  air, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  263 

For  through  its  gray  robe  gleams  the  golden  dew 
Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quenched  not. 


Follow  !  Follow ! 

PANTHEA. 

It  is  mine  other  dream. 

ASIA. 

It  disappears. 

PANTHEA. 

It  passes  now  into  my  mind.     Methought 
As  we  sate  here  the  tiower-infolding  buds 
Burst  on  yon  llghtuing-blasted  almond-tree, 
When  swift  from  the  white  Scythian  w^ildemess 
A  wind  sw^ept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth  with  frost ; 
I  looked,  and  all  the  blossoms  were  blown  down; 
But  on  each  leaf  was  stamped,  as  the  blue  bells 
Of  Hyacinth  tell  Apollo's  written  grief, 

O,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  ! 

ASIA. 

As  you  speak  your  words 
Fill  pause  by  pause  my  own  forgotten  sleep 
With  shapes.     Methought  among  the  lawns  together 
We  wandered,  underneath  the  young  gray  dawn, 
And  multitudes  of  dense  white  Heecy  clouds 
Were  w^andering  in  thick  flocks  along  the  mountains 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind  ; 
And  the  white  dew  on  the  new-bladed  grass, 
Just  piercing  the  dark  earth,  hung  silently  ; 
And  there  was  more  which  I  remember  not : 
But  on  the  shadows  of  the  morning  clouds, 
Athw^art  the  purple  mountain  slope,  was  written 
Follow,  O.  follow  !     As  they  vanished  by, 
And  on  each  herb,  from  which  heaven's  dew  had  fallen, 
The  like  was  stamped,  as  witii  a  w^ithering  fu'e 
A  wind  aro.se  among  the  pines  ;  it  shook 
The  clinging  music  from  their  boughs,  and  then 
Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  farewell  of  ghosts, 
Were  heard  :  Oh,  follow,  follow,  follow  me  ! 
And  then  I  said,  "  Panthea,  look  on  me." 
But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  ej'es 
Still  I  saw,  follow,  follow  ! 

ECHO. 

Follow,  follow ! 

PANTHEA, 

The  crags,  this  clear  spring  morning,.mock  our  voices, 
As  they  were  spirit-tongued. 

ASIA, 

It  's  some  being 
Around  the  crags.     What  fine  clear  sounds !  O,  list ! 


264  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

ECHOES  unseen. 
Echoes  we  :  listen  ! 
We  can  not  stay  : 
As  dew-stars  glisten 
Then  fade  away — 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

ASIA. 

Hark !  spirits  speak.     The  liquid  responses 
Of  their  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 

PANTHEA. 

I  hear. 


O  follow,  follow, 

As  our  voice  reeedeth 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
Where  the  forest  spreadeth  ; 
More  distant. 
O  follow,  follow ! 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew. 
Through  the  noontide  darkness  deep, 
By  the  odor-breathing  sleep 
Of  faint  night-flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves. 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Mocks  thy  gently  falling  feet, 
Child  of  Ocean ! 


Shall  we  pursue  the  sound  ?     It  grows  more  faint 
And  distant. 

PANTHEA. 

List !  the  strain  floats  nearer  now. 

ECHOES. 

In  the  world  unknown 
Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken ; 

By  thy  step  alone 

Can  its  rest  be  broken  ; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

ASIA. 

How  the  notes  sink  upon  the  ebbing  wind ! 

ECHOES. 

O  follow,  follow ! 

Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
By  the  woodland  noon-tide  dew ; 
By  the  forests,  lakes  and  fountains. 
Through  the  many-folded  mountains  ; 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  266 

To  the  rents  and  gulfs  and  chasms 
Where  the  Earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

ASIA. 

Come,  sweet  Panthea,  link  thy  hand  in  mine 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 


SCENE  II. 

A  Foi-est,  intermingled  with  Rocks  and  Caverns.  —  Asia  and  Pan- 
thea pass  into  it.  —  Two  young  Fauns  are  sitting  on  a  Rock, 
listening. 

SEMICHORUS    I.   OF    SPIRITS. 

The  path  through  which  that  lovely  twain 

Have  past,  by  cedar,  pine  and  yew^, 

And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  gi'ew, 

Is  curtained  out  from  heaven's  wide  blue  ; 
Nor  sun  nor  moon  nor  wind  nor  rain, 
Can  pierce  its  interwoven  bowers, 

Nor  aught  save  where  some  cloud  of  dew^ 
Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze 
Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees, 

Hangs  each  a  pearl  in  the  pale  flowers 

Of  the  ^-een  laurel,  blown  anew  ; 
And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently, 
One  frail  and  fair  anemone : 
Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 
That  climbs  and  wanders  through  steep  night 
Has  found  the  cleft  through  which  alone 
Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon 
Ere  it  is  borne  away,  away, 
By  the  swift  heavens  that  can  not  stay, 
It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light, 
Like  lines  of  rain  that  ne'er  unite : 
And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around ; 
And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

There  the  voluptuous  nightingales 

Are  awake  through  all  the  broad  noon-day, 
When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails, 

And  through  the  windless  ivy-boughs, 

Sick  w^ith  sweet  love,  droops  dying  away 
On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom  ; 
Another  from  the  swinging  blossom, 

Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 

Of  the  last  strain,  then  lifts  on  high 

The  wings  of  the  weak  melody. 


266  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Till  some  new  strain  of  feeling  bear 
The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute ; 

When  there  is  heard  through  the  dim  air 

The  rush  of  wintjs,  and  rising  there 
Like  many  a  lake-surrounded  flute. 

Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 

So  sweet  that  joy  is  almost  pain. 

SEiMICHORUS    I. 

There  those  enchanted  eddies  play 

Of  echoes,  music  tongued,  which  draw, 

By  Demogorgon's  mighty  law. 

With  melting  rapture  or  sweet  awe, 
All  spirits  on  that  secret  way ; 

As  inland  boats  are  driven  to  ocean 
Dow^n  streams  made  strong  with  mountain-thaw  ; 
And  first  there  comes  a  gentle  sound 
To  those  in  talk  or  slumber  bound. 

And  wakes  the  destined  :  soft  emotion 
Attracts,  impels  them  ;  those  who  saw 

Say  from  the  breathing  earth  behind 

There  steams  a  plume  uplifting  wind 
Which  drives  them  on  their  path,  while  they 

Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 
The  sweet  desires  within  obey  ; 
And  so  they  float  upon  their  way, 
Until,  still  sweet,  but  loud  and  .strong, 
The  storm  of  sound  is  driven  along. 

Sucked  up  and  huriying  :  as  they  fleet 

Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet 
And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 
Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 

FIKST    FAUN. 

Canst  thou  imagine  where  those  spirits  live 
Which  make  such  delicate  music  in  the  woods  ? 
We  haunt  within  the  least-frequented  caves 
And  closest  coverts,  and  we  know  these  wilds, 
Yet  never  meet  them,  though  we  hear  them  oft : 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves  ? 

SECOND    FAUN. 

'Tis  hard  to  tell; 
I  have  heard  those  more  skilled  in  spirits  say, 
The  bubbles,  which  enchantment  of  the  sun 
Sucks  from  the  pale  faint  water-flowers  that  pave 
The  oozy  bottom  of  clear  lakes  and  pools, 
Are  the  pavilions  where  such  dwell  and  float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 
Which  noontide  kindles  through  the  woven  leaves  ; 
And  when  the.se  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery  air. 
The  which  they  breathe<l  within  those  lucent  domes, 
Ascends  to  flow  like  meteors  through  the  night, 
They  ride  on  them,  and  rein  their  headlong  speed,  - 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  267 

And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  glide  in  fire 
Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 

FIRST    FAUN. 

If  such  live  thus,  have  others  other  lives, 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  within  the  bells 
Of  meadow-flowers,  or  folded  violets  deep. 
Or  on  their  dying  odors,  when  they  die. 
Or  on  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew  ? 

SECOND    FAUN. 

Ay,  many  more  which  we  may  w^ell  divine. 

But  should  we  stay  to  speak,  noontide  would  come, 

And  thw^art  Silenus  find  his  goats  undrawn, 

And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely  songs 

Of  fate  and  chance  and  God  and  chaos  old 

And  love  and  the  chained  Titan's  woeful  doom. 

And  how  he  shall  be  loo.^ed,  and  make  the  earth 

One  brotherhood  :  delightful  .strains  which  cheer 

Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 

To  silence  the  unenvying  nightingales. 


SCENE  III. 
A  Pinnacle  of  Rock  amonsr  Mountains.  —  Asia  and  Panthea. 

PANT  HE  A. 

Hither  the  sound  has  borne  us  —  to  the  realm 

Of  Demogorgon,  and  the  mighty  portal, 

Like  a  volcano's  meteor-breathing  chasm. 

Whence  the  oracular  vapor  is  hurled  up 

Which  lonely  men  drink  wandering  in  their  youth, 

And  call  truth,  virtue,  love,  genius  or  joy. 

That  maddening  wine  of  life  who.se  dregs  they  drain 

To  deep  intoxication  ;  and  uplift. 

Like  MfBnads  who  cry  loud.  '•  Evoe  !  Evoe  !"  — 

The  voice  which  is  contagion  to  the  world. 

ASIA. 

Fit  throne  for  such  a  power  !  Magnificent ! 
How  glorious  art  thou.  Earth  !    And  if  thou  be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still. 
Though  evil  stain  its  work,  and  it  should  be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could  fall  down  and  worship  that  and  thee. 
Even  now  my  heart  adoreth  :  Wonderful ! 
Look,  sister,  ere  the  vapor  dim  thy  brain  : 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mi.st. 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky. 
With  azure  waves  which  burst  in  silver  light. 
Some  Indian  vale.     Behold  it,  rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  and  islanding 


268  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

The  peak  whereon  we  stand,  midway,  around, 
Encinctured  by  the  dark  and  blooming  forests. 
Dim  twilight  lawns  and  stream-illumined  caves 
And  wind  enchanted  shapes  of  wandering  mist ; 
And  far  on  high  the  keen  sky  cleaving  mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sunlike  radiance  fling 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  water-drops. 
The  vale  is  girdled  with  their  walls,  a  howl 
Of  cataracts  from  their  thaw-cloven  ravines 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,  continuous,  vast, 
Awful  as  silence.     Hark  !  the  rushing  snow  ! 
The  sun  awakened  avalanche  !  whose  mass. 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered  there 
»      Flake  after  flake,  in  heaven-defj'iug  minds 

As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some  great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  root.s,  as  do  the  mountains  now. 

PANTHEA. 

Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of  mist  is  breaking 
In  crimson  foam,  even  at  our  feet !  it  rises 
As  Ocean  at  the  enchajitment  of  the  moon 
Kound  foodless  men  wrecked  on  some  oozy  isle. 

ASIA. 

The  fragments  of  the  cloud  are  scattered  up  ; 
The  wind  that  lifts  them  disentwiiies  my  hair ; 
Its  billows  now  sweep  o'er  mine  eyes  ;  my  brain 
Grows  dizzy  :   I  see  shapes  within  the  mist. 

PANTHEA. 

A  countenance  with  beckoning  smiles  :  there  burns 
An  azure  fire  within  its  golden  locks! 
Another  and  another  :  hark  !  they  speak  ! 

SONG    OF    SPIRITS. 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down  ! 
Through  the  shade  of  sleep. 
Through  the  cloudy  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life  ; 
Through  the  vail  and  the  bar 
Of  things  which  seem  and  are, 
Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 

Down,  down  ! 

While  the  sound  whirls  around, 

Down,  down  ! 
As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound, 
As  the  lightning  the  vapor. 
As  a  weak  moth  the  taper  ; 
Death,  despair  ;  love,  sorrow  ; 
Time  both  ;  to-day,  to-morrow  ; 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  269 

As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone, 
Down,  down ! 

Through  the  gray,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down ! 
Where  the  air  is  no  prism, 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not. 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  earth  given. 
Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

Down,  down  ! 

In  the  depth  of  the  deep. 

Down,  down  ! 
Like  vailed  lightning  asleep. 
Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers. 
The  last  look  Love  remembers, 
Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 
On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines, 
A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone. 

Down,  down  ! 

We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee ; 

Down,  down  ! 
With  the  bright  form  beside  thee  ; 
Resist  not  the  weakness. 
Such  strength  is  in  meekness 
That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 
Must  unloose  thi'ough  life's  portal 
The  snake  like  doom  coiled  underneath  his  throne 

By  that  alone. 


SCENE  IV. 
The  Cave  of  Demogorgon.  —  Asia  and  Panthea. 

PANTHKA. 

What  vailed  form  sits  on  that  ebon  throne  ? 

ASIA. 

The  vail  has  fallen. 


I  see  a  mighty  darkness 
Filling  the  seat  of  power,  and  rays  of  gloom 
Dart  round,  as  light  from  the  meridian  sun, 
Ungazed  upon  and  shapeless  :  neither  limb 
Nor  form  nor  outline  ;  yet  we  feel  it  is 
A  living  spirit. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ask  what  thou  wouldst  know. 


270  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

ASIA, 

What  canst  thou  tell  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

All  thing^s  thou  dar'st  demand. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  the  living  world  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

God. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  all 
That  it  contains  ?  —  thought,  passion,  reason,  will, 
Imagination  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

God :  Almighty  God. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  that  sense  which,  when  the  winds  of  spring 

In  rarest  visitation,  or  the  voice 

Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone. 

Fills  the  faint  eyes  with  falling  tears  which  dim 

The  radiant  looks  of  unbewailing  flowers, 

And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 

When  it  returns  no  more  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

Merciful  God. 


And  w^ho  made  terror,  madness,  crime,  remorse. 
Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain  of  things 
To  every  thought  within  the  mind  of  man 
Sway  and  drag  heavily,  and  each  one  reels 
Under  the  load  toward  the  pit  of  death  ; 
Abandoned  hope  and  love  that  turns  to  hate  ; 
And  self-contempt,  bitterer  to  drink  than  blood  ; 
Pain,  who.se  unheeded  and  familiar  speech 
Is  howling  and  keen  shrieks,  day  after  day  ; 
And  hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  hell  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

He  reigns. 

ASIA. 

Utter  his  name  :  a  world  pining  in  pain 

Asks  but  his  name  :  curses  shall  drag  him  down  ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

He  reigns. 

ASIA, 

I  feel,  1  know  it :  who  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

He  reigns. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  271 

ASIA. 

Who  reigns  ?     There  was  the  heaven  and  earth  at  first, 

And  light  and  love  ;  then  Saturn,  from  whose  throne 

Time  fell,  an  envious  shadow  :  such  the  state 

Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his  sway, 

As  the  calm  joy  of  fiowers  and  living  leaves 

Before  the  wind  or  sun  has  withered  them 

And  semi  vital  worms;  but  he  refused 

The  birthright  of  their  being  —  knowledge,  power, 

The  skill  which  wields  the  elements,  the  thought 

Which  pierces  this  dim  univert^e  like  light, 

Self-empire  and  the  majesty  of  love  : 

For  thirst  of  which  they  fainted.     Then  Prometheus 

Gave  wisdom,  which  is  streuqth.  to  Jupiter, 

And  with  this  law  alone  —  '•  Let  man  be  free''  — 

Clothed  him  with  the  dominion  of  wide  heaven. 

To  know  nor  faith  nor  love  nor  law  ;  to  be 

Omnipotent  but  friendless  is  to  reign  ; 

And  Jove  now  reigned  :  for  on  the  race  of  man 

First  famine  and  then  toil  and  then  disease, 

Strife,  wounds  and  ghastly  death  unseen  before, 

Fell :  and  the  unseasonable  seasons  drove, 

With  alternating  shafts  of  frcst  and  fire, 

Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain-caves  ; 

And  in  their  desert  heaits  fierce  wants  he  sent, 

And  mad  disquietudes  and  shadows  idle 

Of  unreal  good,  which  levied  mutual  war, 

So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  they  raged. 

Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  the  legioned  hopes 

Which  sleep  within  folded  Klysian  fiow^ers. 

Nepenthe.  Moly,  Amaranth,  fadeless  blooms, 

That  they  might  hide  with  thin  and  rainbow  wings 

The  shape  of  Death  ;  and  Love  he  sent  to  bind 

The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 

Which  bears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human  heart ; 

And  he  tamed  fire  which,  like  some  beast  of  prey, 

Mo.st  terrible,  but  lovely,  played  beneath 

The  frown  of  man  ;  and  tortured  to  his  v^^ill 

Iron  and  gold,  the  slaves  and  signs  of  power, 

And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest  forms 

Hidden  beneath  the  mountains  and  the  waves. 

He  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created  tliought, 

Which  is  the  measure  of  the  universe  ; 

And  Science  struck  the  thrones  of  earth  and  heaven, 

Which  shook,  but  fell  not :  and  the  harmonious  mind 

Poured  itself  forth  in  all  prophetic  song ; 

And  music  lifted  up  the  listening  spirit 

Until  it  walked,  exempt  from  mortal  care. 

Godlike,  o'er  the  clear  billows  of  sweet  sound; 

And  human  hands  first  mimicked  and  then  mocked, 

With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than  its  own, 

The  human  form,  till  marble  grew  divine, 

And  mothers,  gazing,  drank  the  love  men  see 


272  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Reflected  in  their  race,  behold  and  perish. 

He  told  the  hidden  power  of  herbs  and  springs, 

And  Disease  drank  and  slept.     Death  grew  like  sleep. 

He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 

Of  the  wide-wandering  stars  ;  and  how  the  sun 

Changes  bis  lair,  and  by  what  secret  spell 

The  pale  moon  is  transformed,  when  her  broad  eye 

Gazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea  : 

He  taught  to  rule,  as  life  directs  the  limbs, 

The  tempest  winged  chariots  of  the  ocean. 

And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.     Cities  then 

Were  built,  and  through  their  snow-like  columns  flowed 

The  warm  winds,  and  the  azure  ether  shone. 

And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  were  seen. 

Such  the  alleviations  of  his  state 

Prometheus  gave  to  man,  for  w^hich  he  hangs 

Withering  in  destined  pain  :  but  who  rains  dov^^n 

Evil,  the  immedicable  plague,  which,  while 

Man  looks  on  his  creation  like  a  god 

And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him  on 

The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of  earth. 

The  outcast,  the  abandoned,  the  alone  ? 

Not  Jove  :  while  yet  his  frown  shook  heaven,  ay,  when 

His  adversary  from  adamantine  chains 

Cursed  him,  he  trembled  like  a  slave.     Declare 

Who  is  his  master  ?     Is  he  too  a  slave  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

All  spirits  are  enslaved  which  serve  things  evil ; 
Thou  knowest  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 

ASIA. 

Whom  calledst  thou  God  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

I  spoke  but  as  ye  speak, 
For  Jove  is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 

ASIA. 

Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

If  the  abysm 
Could  vomit  forth  its  secrets.     But  a  voice 
Is  wanting,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless  ; 
For  w^hat  would  it  avail  to  bid  thee  gaze 
On  the  revolving  world  ?    What  to  hid  speak 
Fate,  Time,  Occasion,  Chance  and  Change  ?    To  these 
All  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love. 

ASIA. 

So  much  I  asked  before,  and  my  heart  gave 

The  response  tliou  hast  given  ;  and  of  such  truths 

Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 

One  more  demand  ;  and  do  thou  answer  me 

As  my  own  soul  would  answer,  did  it  know 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  273 

That  which  I  ask.  Prometheus  shall  arise 
Henceforth  the  sun  of  this  rejoicing  world : 
When  shall  the  destined  hour  arrive  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

Behold ! 


The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 

I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds 

Which  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each  there  stands 

A  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 

Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 

And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars  : 

Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth  and  drink 

With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  ow^n  speed, 

As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before. 

And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.     Their  bright  locks 

Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair  :  they  all 

Sweep  onward. 

DEMOGORGON. 

These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.     One  waits  for  thee. 


A  spirit  with  a  dreadful  countenance 

Checks  its  dark  chariot  by  the  craggy  gulf. 

Unlike  thy  brethren;  ghastly  charioteer, 

Who  art  thou  ?  Whither  wouldst  thou  bear  me  ?  Speak  ! 

SPIRIT. 

I  am  the  shadow  of  a  destiny 

More  dread  than  is  my  aspect :  ere  yon  planet 

Has  set,  the  darkness  which  ascends  with  me 

Shall  wrap  in  lasting  night  heaven's  kingless  throne. 

ASIA. 

What  meanest  thou  ? 

PANTHEA. 

That  terrible  shadow  floats 
Up  from  its  throne,  as  may  the  lurid  smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruined  cities  o'er  the  sea, 
Lo  !  it  ascends  the  car  ;  the  coursers  fly 
Terrified  :  watch  its  path  among  the  stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 

ASIA. 

Thus  I  am  answered  :  strange ! 

PANTHEA. 

See,  near  the  verge,  another  chariot  stays  ; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with  crimson  fire. 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculptured  rim 
Of  delicate  strange  tracery  ;  the  young  spirit 
That  guides  it  has  the  dove-like  eyes  of  hope  ; 
18 


274  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul !  as  light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lampless  air. 

SPIRIT. 

My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning, 
They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 

And  when  the  red  morning  is  brightening 
They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam  ; 
They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness  I  deem, 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire  :  and  their  speed  makes  night  kindle ; 
I  fear  :  they  outstrip  the  Typhoon  ; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon : 
"We  shall  rest  from  long  labors  at  noon  : 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 


SCENE  V. 

The  Car  pauses  within  a  Cloud  on  the  top  of  a  snowy  Mountain. 
Asia,  Panthea  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 

SPIRIT. 

On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire  ; 

But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire  : 
They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  desire  ! 

ASIA. 

Thou  breathest  on  their  nostrils,  but  my  breath 
Would  give  them  swifter  speed. 

SPIRIT. 

Alas  !  it  could  not. 

PANTHEA. 

Oh  Spirit !  pause,  and  tell  whence  is  the  light 
Which  fills  the  cloud  ?  —  the  sun  is  yet  unrisen. 

SPIRIT. 

The  sun  will  rise  not  till  noon.     Apollo 
Is  held  in  heaven  by  wonder  ;  and  the  light 
Which  fills  this  vapor,  as  the  aerial  hue 
Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fills  the  water. 
Flows  from  thy  mighty  sister. 

PANTHEA. 

Yes,  I  feel  — 

ASIA. 

What  is  it  with  thee,  sister  ?     Thou  art  pale. 

PANTHEA. 

How  thou  art  changed  !    I  dare  not  look  on  thee. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  275 

I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 

The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.     Some  good  change 

Is  working  in  the  elements,  which  suffer 

Thy  presence  thus  unvailed.     The  Nereids  tell 

That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 

Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise,  and  thou  didst  stand 

Within  a  veined  shell,  which  Hoated  on 

Over  the  calm  Hoor  of  the  crystal  sea, 

Among  the  jEgean  isles,  and  by  the  shores 

Which  bear  thy  name  :  love,  like  the  atniosidiero 

Of  the  sun's  tire  filling  the  living  world, 

Burst  from  thee,  and  ilhimined  earth  and  heaven 

And  the  deep  ocean  and  the  sunless  caves 

And  all  that  dwells  within  them  ;  till  grief  cast 

Eclipse  upon  the  soul  from  which  it  came: 

Such  art  thou  now :  nor  is  it  I  alone. 

Thy  sister,  thy  companion,  thine  own  chosen  one. 

But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy  sympathy, 

Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which  speak  the  love 

Of  all  articulate  beings  ?     Feele.-t  thou  not 

The  inanimate  winds  enamored  of  thee  ?     List !     [Music 

ASIA. 

Thy  words  are  sweeter  than  aught  else  but  his 
Whose  echoes  they  are  :  yet  all  love  is  sweet, 
Given  or  returned.     Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining  air. 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  god  : 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate, 
As  1  am  now  ;  but  those  w^ho  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings, 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 

PANTHEA. 

List !    Spirits,  speak, 
VOICE  (in  the  air,  singing). 
Life  of  Life  !    thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them  ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  tire  :  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them ; 
As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them ; 
And  this  atmosphere  divinest 
Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 
Fair  are  others  ;  none  beholds  thee. 

But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 
Like  the  fairest,  ior  Jt  fbld.s  thee 

From  the  fight,  that  liquid  splendor, 


276  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never. 
As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever  ! 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  uubewailiug  ! 

ASIA. 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat 

Which  like  a  sleeping  swan  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  sixiging  ; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  the  helm  conducting  it, 
While  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever, 

Upon  that  many-winding  river. 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses  ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading  sound. 

Meanw^hile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 

In  Music's  most  serene  dominions  ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven. 

And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar. 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star, 
But  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven  ; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 

By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots, 

Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 

The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided  : 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 
Which  in  the  winds  on  the  waves  doth  move, 
Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 

We  have  passed  Age's  icy  caves, 

And  Manhood's  dark  and  tossing  waves. 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to  betray : 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day ; 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green, 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see, 
And  rest,  having  beheld  ;  somewhat  like  thee ; 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melodiously  ! 

END    OF    THE    SECOND    ACT. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  277 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I. 

Heaven. — Jupiter  on  his  Throne;  Thetis  and  the  other  Deities 
assembled. 

JUPITER. 

Ye  congregated  powers  of  heaven,  who  share 

The  glory  and  the  strength  of  him  ye  serve, 

Rejoice  !  henceforth  I  am  omnipotent. 

All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me  ;  alone 

The  soul  of  man,  like  unextinguished  fire, 

Yet  burns  toward  Heaven  with  fierce  reproach  and  doubt 

And  lamentation  and  reluctant  prayer. 

Hurling  up  insurrection,  which  might  make 

Our  antique  empire  insecure,  though  built 

On  eldest  faith,  and  heirs  coeval,  fear  ; 

And  though  my  curses  through  the  pendulous  air. 

Like  snow  on  hcrbless  peaks,  fall  flake  by  fiake, 

And  cling  to  it ;  though  under  my  wrath's  night 

It  climb  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step. 

Which  wound  it,  as  ice  wounds  unsandaled  feet, 

It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery, 

Aspiring,  unrepressed,  yet  soon  to  fall : 

Even  now  have  I  begotten  a  strange  wonder. 

That  fatal  child,  the  ten-or  of  the  earth, 

Who  waits  but  till  the  destined  hour  arrive, 

Bearing  from  Demogorgon's  vacant  throne 

The  dreadful  might  of  ever-living  limbs 

Which  clothed  that  awful  spirit  unbeheld, 

To  redescend.  and  trample  out  the  spark. 

Pour  forth  heaven's  wine,  Idaean  Ganymede, 

And  let  it  fill  the  Daedal  cups  like  fire, 

And  from  the  fiower-inwoven  soil  divine, 

Ye  all-triumphant  harmonies  arise. 

As  dew  from  earth  under  the  twilight  stars  : 

Dnuk  !  be  the  nectar  circling  through  your  veins 

The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  gods. 

Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 

Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me.  vailed  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which  makes  thee  one  with  me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  etern.ty  ! 
When  thou  didst  cry,  "  Insufferable  might ! 
Grod  !  Spare  me  !  I  sustain  not  tlie  (juick  flames. 
The  penetrating  presence ;  all  my  being. 
Like  him  whom  the  Nuraidian  seps  did  thaw 
Into  a  dew  with  poi.-son,  in  dis.-*olvcd, 


278  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Sinking  through  its  foundations  :"  even  then 
Two  mighty  spirits,  mingling  made  a  third 
Mightier  than  eitlier,  whidi  unbodied  now 
Between  us  floats,  felt  ahhough  unbeheld 
Waiting  the  incarnation  which  ascends 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 
Griding  the  winds  ?)  from  Demogorgon's  throne. 
Victory  !  victory  !  Feelest  thou  not,  O  world  ! 
The  earthquake  of  his  chariot  thundering  up 
Olympus? 

[The  Car  of  the  Hour  m-rives.  —  Demogorgon  descends 
and  moves  toward  the  Throne  of  Jupiter. 
Awful  shape,  what  art  thou  ?  Speak  ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Eternity.     Demand  no  direr  name. 

Descend,  and  follow  me  down  the  abyss. 

I  am  thy  child  as  thou  wert  Saturn's  child  ; 

Mightier  than  thee  :  and  we  must  dwell  together 

Henceforth  in  darkness.     Lift  thy  lightnings  not. 

The  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain 

Or  reassume  or  hold,  succeeding  thee : 

Yet  if  thou  wilt,  as  'tis  the  destiny 

Of  trodden  worms  to  writhe  till  they  are  dead, 

Put  forth  thy  might. 

JUPITER. 

Detested  prodigy  ! 
Even  thus  beneath  the  deep  Titanian  prisons 
I  trample  thee  !  thou  hngerest  ? 

Mercy  !  mercy ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite  !  Oh 
That  thou  wouldst  make  mine  enemy  my  judge, 
Even  where  he  hangs,  .seared  by  my  long  revenge. 
On  Caucasus !  he  would  not  doom  me  thus. 
Gentle  and  just  and  dreadless,  is  he  not 
The  monarch  of  the  world  ?     What  then  art  thou  ? 
No  refuge  !  no  appeal ! 

Sink  with  me  then, 
We  two  w^ill  sink  on  the  wide  w.ives  of  ruin, 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspent 
Drop,  twisted  in  inextricable  tight, 
Into  a  shoreless  sea.     Let  hell  unlock 
Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempe.stuous  fire, 
And  whelm  on  them  into  the  bottomless  void 
This  desolated  world  and  thee  and  me. 
The  conqueror  and  the  conciuered,  and  the  wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated. 

Ai !  Ai  ! 
The  elements  obey  me  not.     I  sink 
Dizzily  down,  ever,  for  ever,  down. 
And  like  a  cloud  mine  enemy  above 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victory  !  Ai,  Ai ! 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  279 


SCENE  II. 

The  Mouth  of  a  great  River  in.  the  Island  Atlantis. —  Ocean  is 
discovered  reclining  near  the  Shore ;  Apollo  stands  beside  him. 

OCEAN. 

He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath  his  conqueror's  frown  ? 

APOLLO. 

Ay,  when  the  strife  was  ended  which  made  dim 

The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars. 

The  terrors  of  his  eye  illumined  heaven 

With  sanguine  light,  through  the  thick  ragged  skirts 

Of  the  victorious  darkness,  as  he  fell  : 

Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agony, 

Which,  from  a  rent  among  the  fiery  clouds, 

Bums  far  along  the  tempest- wrinkled  deep. 

OCEAN. 

He  sunk  to  the  abyss  ?     To  the  dark  void  ? 

APOLLO. 

An  eagle  so  caught  in  some  bursting  cloud 
On  Caucasus,  bis  thunder-bafHed  wings 
Entangled  in  the  whirlwind,  and  his  eyes 
Which  gazed  on  the  undazzling  sun,  now  blinded 
By  the  w^hite  lightning,  while  the  ponderous  hail 
Beats  on  his  struggling  form,  which  sinks  at  length 
Prone  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 

OCEAN. 

Henceforth  the  fields  of  heaven-reflecting  sea 

Which  are  my  realm,  will  heave  unstained  with  blood 

Beneath  the  uplifting  winds,  like  plains  of  com 

Swayed  by  the  summer  air  ;  my  streams  will  flow 

Round  many-peopled  continents,  and  round 

Fortunate  isles  ;  and  from  their  glassy  thrones 

Blue  Proteus  and  his  humid  nymphs  shall  mark 

The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 

The  floating  bark  of  the  light-laden  moon 

With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's  crest, 

Borne  down  the  rapid  sunset's  ebbing  sea ; 

Tracking  their  path  no  more  by  blood  and  groans 

And  desolation  and  the  mingled  voice 

Of  slavery  and  command  ;  but  by  the  light 

Of  wave  reflected  Howers  and  floating  odors 

And  music  soft  and  mild,  free,  gentle  voices, 

That  sweetest  music  such  as  spirits  love. 

APOLLO. 

And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the  deeds  which  make 
My  mind  obscure  with  .soitow,  as  eclipse 
Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide  ;  but  list,  I  hear 
The  small,  clear,  silver  lute  of  the  young  Spirit 
That  sits  i'  tlie  morning  star. 


280  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


Thou  must  away; 
Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even :  till  when  farewell : 
The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now^  to  feed  it 
With  azure  calm  out  of  the  emerald  urns 
Which  stand  for  ever  full  beside  my  throne. 
Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  gi-een  sea, 
Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind-like  stream, 
Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  streaming  hair 
W^ith  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea -flower  crowns, 
Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's  joy. 

[A  sound  of  waves  is  heard. 
It  is  the  unpastured  sea  hungering  for  calm. 
Peace,  monster  ;  I  come  now.     Farewell. 

APOLLO. 

Farewell, 


SCENE  III. 

Caucasus.  —  Prometheus,  Hercules,  Ione,  the  Earth,  Spir- 
its, Asia,  and  Panthea,  barrie  in  the  car  with  the  Spirit  of 
the  Hour. 

Hercules  unbinds  Prometheus,  vrho  descends. 

HERCULES. 

Most  glorious  among  spirits  !  thus  doth  strength 
To  wisdom,  courage  and  long-sutfering  love, 
And  thee,  who  art  the  form  they  animate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy  gentle  words 
Are  sweeter  even  than  freedom  long  desired 
And  long  delayed. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life. 
Shadow  of  beauty  unbeheld  :  and  ye. 
Fair  sister  nymphs,  who  made  long  years  of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  through  your  love  and  care  ; 
Henceforth  we  will  not  part.     There  is  a  cave 
All  overgrown  with  trailing  odorous  plants 
Which  curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald,  and  a  fountain 
Leaps  in  the  midst  with  an  awakening  sound. 
From  its  curved  roof  the  mountain's  frozen  tears, 
Like  snow  or  silver  or  long  diamond  spires. 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubtful  light: 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever  moving  air, 
Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree,  and  bird.s 
And  bees  ;  and  all  around  are  mossy  seats. 
And  the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with  long  soft  grass ; 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  281 

A  simple  dwelling,  which  sliall  be  our  own ;  , 

Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and  change, 

As  the  world  ebbs  and  flows,  ourselves  unchanged. 

What  can  hide  man  from  mutability  ? 

And  if  ye  sigh,  then  I  will  smile  ;  and  thou, 

lone,  shall  chant  fragments  of  sea-music, 

Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 

The  tears  she  brought,  which  yet  were  sweet  to  shed. 

We  will  entangle  lauds  and  flowers  and  beams 

Which  twinkle  on  the  fountain's  brim,  and  make 

Strange  combinations  out  of  common  things. 

Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  innocence  ; 

And  we  will  search  with  looks  and  words  of  love 

Tor  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than  the  last, 

Our  unexhausted  spirits  ;  and  like  lutes 

Touched  by  the  skill  of  the  enamored  wind. 

Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new, 

From  difterence  sweet  where  discord  can  not  be ; 

And  hither  come,  sped  on  the  charmed  winds, 

Which  meet  from  all  the  points  of  heaven,  as  bees 

Prom  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds, 

At  their  known  island  homes  in  Himera, 

The  echoes  of  the  human  world,  which  tell 

Of  the  low  voice  of  love,  almost  unheard, 

And  dove-eyed  pity's  murmured  pain,  and  music, 

Itself  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 

That  tempers  or  improves  man's  life,  now  free  ; 

And  lovely  apparitions,  dim  at  first, 

Then  radiant,  as  the  mind,  arising  bright 

From  the  embrace  of  beauty,  whence  the  forms 

Of  which  these  are  the  phantoms,  casts  on  them 

The  gathered  rays  which  are  reality, 

Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 

Of  Painting,  Sculpture  and  rapt  Poesy, 

And  arts,  though  unimagined,  yet  to  be. 

The  wandering  voices  and  the  shadows  these 

Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 

Of  that  best  worship,  love,  by  him  and  us 

Given  and  returned  ;  swift  shapes  and  sounds,  -which  grow 

More  fair  and  soft  as  man  grows  wise  and  kind. 

And  vail  by  vail,  evil  and  error  fall : 

Such  virtue  has  the  cave  and  place  around. 

[Turning  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 
For  thee,  fair  Spirit,  one  toil  remains.     lone. 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which  Proteus  old 
Made  Asia's  nuptial  boon,  breathing  within  it 
A  voice  to  be  accomplished,  and  which  thou 
Didst  hide  in  grass  under  the  hollow  rock. 

lONE. 

Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more  loved  and  lovely 
Than  all  thy  sisters,  this  the  mystic  shell ; 
See  the  pale  azure  fading  into  silver 


282  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light : 
Looks  it  not  like  lulled  music  sleeping  there  ? 

SPIRIT. 

It  seems  in  truth  the  fairest  shell  of  ocean : 

Its  sound  must  be  at  once  both  sweet  and  strange. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Go,  borne  over  the  cities  of  mankind 

On  whirlwind  footed  coursers  :  once  again 

Outspeed  the  sun  around  the  orbed  world  ; 

And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling  air. 

Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 

Loosening  its  mighty  mu.sic  ;  it  shall  be 

As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes  :  then 

Return  ;  and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our  cave. 

And  thou,  O  Mother  Earth  !  — 

THE    EARTH. 

I  hear,  1  feel ; 
Thy  lips  are  on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs  down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves:  'tis  life,  'tis  joy, 
And  through  my  withered,  old  and  icy  frame 
The  warmth  of  an  immortal  youth  shoots  down 
Circling.     Henceforth  the  many  children  fair 
Folded  in  my  sustaining  arms  ;  all  plants 
And  creeping  forms  and  insects  rainbow -winged 
And  birds  and  beasts  and  fish  and  human  shapes. 
Which  drew^  ilisease  and  pain  from  my  wau  bosom, 
Draining  the  poi.son  of  de.-;pair,  shall  take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment ;  to  me 
Shall  they  become  like  sister  antelopes 
By  one  fair  dam,  .snow  white  and  swift  as  wind. 
Nursed  among  lilies  near  a  brimming  stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  my  sunless  sleep  shall  Hoat 
Under  the  stars  like  balm  :  night  folded  flowers 
Shall  suck  unwithering  hues  in  their  repo.se  : 
And  men  and  bea.sts  in  happy  dreams  shall  gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day,  and  all  its  joy  : 
And  death  shall  be  the  last  embrace  of  her 
Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a  mother, 
Folding  her  child,  says,  "  Leave  me  not  again." 

ASIA. 

Oh,  mother !  wherefore  speak  the  name  of  death  ? 
Cease  they  to  love  and  move  and  breathe  and  speak, 
Who  die  ? 

THE    EARTH. 

It  would  avail  not  to  reply  : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
But  to  the  uncommunicating  dead. 
Death  is  the  vail  which  those  who  live  call  life  : 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted  :  and  meanwhile 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  283 

In  mild  variety  the  seasons  mild 

With  rainbow-skirted  showers  and  odorous  "winds, 

And  long  blue  meteors  cleansing  the  dull  night, 

And  the  life-kindling-  shafts  of  the  keen  sun's 

All-piercing  bow,  and  the  dew-mingled  rain 

Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  inHuence  mild 

Shall  clothe  the  forests  and  the  fields,  ay,  even 

The  crag-built  deserts  of  the  barren  deep. 

With  ever-living  leaves  and  fruits  and  flowers. 

And  thou  !     There  is  a  cavern  where  my  spirit 

Was  panted  forth  in  angui.-h  while  thy  pain 

Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  that  did  inhale  it 

Became  mad  too,  and  built  a  temple  there, 

And  spoke,  and  were  oracular,  and  lured 

The  erring  nations  round  to  mutual  war 

And  faithless  faith,  such  as  Jove  kept  with  thee  : 

Which  breath  now  rises,  as  among  tall  weeds 

A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 

With  a  .serener  light  and  crimson  air 

Intense,  yet  soft,  the  rocks  and  woods  around  ; 

It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  tiie  serpent  vine. 

And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild, 

And  budding,  blown  or  odor-faded  blooms 

Which  star  the  winds  with  points  of  colored  light, 

As  they  rain  through  them,  and  bright  golden  globes 

Of  fruit,  suspended  in  their  ovsai  green  heaven. 

And  through  their  veined  leaves  and  amber  stems 

The  flowers  whose  purple  and  translucid  bowls 

Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  dew, 

The  drink  of  .spirits  :  and  it  circles  round. 

Like  the  soft  waving  wings  of  noonday  dreams. 

Inspiring  calm  and  happy  thoughts,  like  mine, 

Now  thou  art  thus  restored.     This  cave  is  thine. 

Arise !  appear ! 

[A  Spirit  rises  in  the  likeness  of  a  winged  child. 
This  is  my  torch-bearer  ; 
Who  let  his  lamp  out  in  old  time  with  gazing 
On  eyes  from  which  he  kindled  it  anew 
With  love,  which  is  as  fire,  sweet  daughter  mine, 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.     Run.  wayward, 
And  guide  this  company  beyond  the  peak 
Of  Bacchic  Ny.sa.  MjEuad-haunted  mountain, 
And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers, 
Trampling  the  torrent  .streams  and  glas.sy  lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelaying. 
And  up  the  green  ravine,  across  the  vale. 
Beside  the  windless  and  crystalline  pool, 
Where  ever  lies,  on  unerasing  waves. 
The  image  of  a  temple,  built  above, 
Di.stinct  with  column,  arch  and  architrave 
And  palm-like  capital  and  over-wrought, 
And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 
Praxitelean  shapes,  whcse  marble  stniles 


284  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Fill  the  hushed  air  with  everlasting  love. 
Tt  is  deserted  now,  but  once  it  bore 
hy  name,  Prometheus ;  there  the  emulous  youths 
iore  to  thy  honor  through  the  divine  gloom 
The  lamp  which  was  thine  emblem  :  even  as  those 
Who  bear  the  untransmitted  torch  of  hope 
Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life, 
As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 
To  this  far  goal  of  Time.     Depart :  farewell. 
Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  Forest. — In  the  Back-ground  a  Cave.  —  Prometheus,  Asia, 
Panthea,  Ione,  and  tlie  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 

lONE. 

Sister,  it  is  not  earthly  :  how  it  glides 
Under  the  leaves  !  how  on  its  head  there  burns 
A  light,  like  a  green  star,  ■whose  emerald  beams 
Are  twined  with  its  fair  hair  !  how,  as  it  moves, 
The  splendor  drops  in  flakes  upon  the  grass ! 
Knowest  thou  it  ? 

PANTHEA. 

It  is  the  delicate  spirit 
That  guides  the  earth  through  heaven.     From  afar 
The  populous  constellations  call  that  light 
The  loveliest  of  the  planets  ;  and  sometimes 
It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea. 
Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud. 
Or  walks  through  fields  or  cities  while  men  sleep. 
Or  o'er  the  mountain-tops  or  down  the  rivers 
Or  through  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as  now, 
Wondering  at  all  it  sees.     Before  Jove  reigned 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 
Each  leisure  hour  to  diink  the  liquid  light 
Out  of  her  eyes,  for  which  it  said  it  thirsted 
As  one  bit  by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  made  its  childish  confidence,  and  told  her 
All  it  had  known  or  seen,  for  it  saw  much, 
Yet  idly  reasoned  w^hat  it  saw  :  and  called  her — 
For  whence  it  sprung  it  knew  not,  nor  do  1  — 
"  Mother,  dear  mother." 

the    spirit    of    THE    EARTH  [running  to  ASIA.) 

Mother,  dearest  mother  ! 
May  I  then  talk  with  thee  as  I  was  wont  ? 
May  1  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft  arms. 
After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of  joy  ? 
May  I  tlien  play  beside  thee  the  long  noons, 
When  work  is  none  in  the  bright  silent  air  ? 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  285 

ASIA. 

I  love  thee,  gentlest  being  !  and  henceforth 
Can  cherish  thee  uuenvied.     Speak,  I  pray : 
Thy  simple  talk  once  solaced,  now  delights. 

SPIRIT   OF   THE    EARTH. 

Mother,  I  am  grown  wiser,  though  a  child 

Can  not  be  wise  like  thee,  within  this  day  ; 

And  happier  too  —  happier  and  wiser  both. 

Thou  knowest  that  toads  and  snakes  and  loathly  worms 

And  venomous  and  malicious  beasts,  and  boughs 

That  bore  ill  berries  in  the  woods,  were  ever 

A  hindrance  to  my  walks  o'er  the  green  world  : 

And  that  among  the  haunts  of  humankind 

Hard-featured  men,  or  with  proud,  angry  looks, 

Or  cold,  staid  gait,  or  false  and  hollow  smiles. 

Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self  loved  ignorance. 

Or  other  such  foul  masks,  with  vs'hich  ill  thoughts 

Hide  that  fair  being  whom  we  spirits  call  man  ; 

And  women  too,  ugliest  of  all  things  evil 

(Though  fair,  even  in  a  world  where  thou  art  fair, 

When  good  and  kind,  free  and  sincere  like  thee), 

When  false  or  frowning  made  me  sick  at  heart 

To  pass  them,  though  they  slept,  and  I  unseen. 

Well,  my  path  lately  lay  through  a  great  city 

Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it  : 

A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate  : 

When  there  was  heard  a  sound  so  loud  it  shook 

The  towers  amid  the  moonlight,  yet  more  sweet 

Than  any  voice  but  thine,  sweetest  of  all ; 

A  long,  long  sound,  as  it  would  never  end  : 

And  all  the  inhabitants  leaped  suddenly 

Out  of  their  rest,  and  gathered  in  the  streets. 

Looking  in  wonder  up  to  heaven,  while  yet 

The  music  pealed  along.     I  hid  myself 

Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square, 

Where  1  lay  like  the  reflex  of  the  moon 

Seen  in  a  w^ave  under  green  leaves :  and  soon 

Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 

Of  which  I  spoke  as  having  wrought  me  pain. 

Passed  floating  through  the  air,  and  fading  still 

Into  the  winds  that  scattered  them  ;  and  those 

From  whom  they  passed  seemed  mild  and  lovely  forms 

After  some  foul  disguise  had  fallen,  and  all 

Were  somewhat  changed  —  and  after  brief  surprise 

And  greetings  of  delighted  wonder,  all 

Went  to  their  sleep  again  :  and  when  the  dawn 

Came,  wouldst  thou  think  that  toads  and  snakes  and  efts 

Could  e'er  be  beautiful  ?  yet  so  they  were. 

And  that  with  little  change  of  shape  or  hue  : 

All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off: 

I  can  not  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 

Upon  a  drooping  bough  with  nightshade  twined, 

I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  downward 


286  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

And  thinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber  berries. 
With  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep  there  lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky ; 
So  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy  changes, 
We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of  all. 

ASIA. 

And  never  will  we  part,  till  thy  chaste  sister 
Who  guides  the  frozen  and  inconstant  moon 
Will  look  ou  thy  more  warm  and  equal  light 
Till  her  heart  thaw  like  flakes  of  April  snow. 
And  love  thee. 

SPIRIT    OF   THE    EARTH. 

What  —  as  Asia  loves  Prometheus? 

ASIA. 

Peace,  w^anton,  thou  art  yet  not  old  enough. 
Think  ye  by  gazing  on  each  other's  eyes 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selve.^,  and  fill 
With  sphered  fires  the  interlunar  air  ? 

SPIRIT    OF    THE    EARTH. 

Nay,  mother,  w^hile  my  sister  trims  her  lamp 
'Tis  hard  I  should  go  darkling. 

ASIA. 

Listen :  look  ! 
[The  Spik\t  of  the  Hour  enters. 

PROMETHEUS. 

We  feel  what  thou  hast  heard  and  seen  :  yet  speak. 

SPIRIT    OF    THE    HOUR. 

Soon  as  the  sound  had  cea.sed  whose  thunder  filled 

The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide  earth. 

There  was  a  change  :  the  impalpable  thin  air 

And  the  all-circling  sunlight  were  transformed, 

As  if  the  sense  of  love,  dissolved  in  them. 

Had  folded  itself  round  the  sphered  world. 

My  vision  then  grew  clear,  and  I  could  see 

Into  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  : 

Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  floated  down, 

Winnowing  the  lightsome  air  with  languid  plumes, 

My  cour.sers  sought  their  birthplace  in  the  sun, 

Where  they  henceforth  will  live  exempt  from  toil, 

Pasturing  flowers  of  vegetable  fire. 

And  where  my  moonlight  car  will  stand  within 

A  temple,  gazed  upon  by  Phidian  forms 

Of  thee  and  Asia  and  the  Earth  and  me 

And  you  fair  nymphs,  looking  the  love  we  feel , 

In  memory  of  the  tidings  it  has  borne, 

Beneath  a  dome  fretted  with  graven  flowers. 

Poised  on  twelve  columns  of  resplendent  stone, 

And  open  to  the  bright  and  liquid  sky. 

Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphisbenic  snake 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  287 

The  likeness  of  those  winged  steeds  will  mock 

The  flight  from  which  they  find  repose.     Alas  ! 

Whither  has  -wandered  now  mj^  partial  tongue 

"When  all  remains  untold  which  ye  would  hear  ? 

As  I  have  said,  1  floated  to  the  earth : 

It  was,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 

To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be  ;  I  wandering  went 

Among  the  haunts  and  dwellings  of  mankind, 

And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 

Such  mighty  change  as  I  had  felt  within 

Expressed  in  outward  things  ;  but  soon  I  looked. 

And  behold,  thrones  were  kingless,  and  men  walked 

One  with  the  other  even  as  spirits  do  : 

None  fawned,  none  trampled  ;  hate,  disdain  or  fear, 

Self  love  or  self  contempt,  on  human  brows 

No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of  hell, 

"  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here  ;" 

None  frowned,  none  trembled,  none  with  eager  fear 

Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command. 

Until  the  subject  of  a  tyrant's  will 

Became,  worse  fate,  the  abject  of  his  own, 

Which  spuiTed  him,  like  an  outspent  horse,  to  death. 

None  wrought  his  lips  in  truth-entangling  lines 

Which  smiled  the  lie  his  tongue  disdained  to  speak  ; 

None,  with  firm  sneer,  trod  out  in  his  own  heart 

The  sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there  remained 

Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self  consumed. 

And  the  wretch  crept  a  vampire  among  men, 

Infecting  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill ; 

None  talked  that  common,  false,  cold,  hollow  talk 

Wnich  makes  the  heart  deny  the  yes  it  breathes, 

Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 

With  such  a  self-mistrust  as  has  no  name. 

And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful  and  kind 

As  the  free  heaven  which  rains  i'resh  light  and  dew 

On  the  wide  earth,  passed  ;  gentle  radiant  forms. 

From  custom's  evil  taint  exempt  and  pure  ; 

Speaking  the  wisdom  once  they  could  not  think, 

Looking  emotions  once  they  feared  to  feel. 

And  changed  to  all  which  once  they  dared  not  be. 

Yet  being  now,  made  earth  like  heaven ;  nor  pride 

Nor  jealousy  nor  envy  nor  ill  shame. 

The  bitterest  of  tho.se  drops  of  treasured  gall, 

Spoilt  the  sweet  taste  of  the  nepenthe,  love. 

Tlwones,  altars,  judgement-seats  and  prisons — wherein, 

And  beside  which,  by  wretched  men  were  borne 

Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords  and  chains  and  tomes 

Of  reasoned  wrong,  glozed  on  by  ignorance, 

Were  like  those  mon.strous  and  barbaric  shapes, 

The  ghosts  of  a  no-more  remembered  fame, 

Which  from  their  unworn  obelisks  look  forth 

In  triumph  o'er  the  palaces  and  tombs 

Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors  :  mouldering  round 


288  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Those  imaged  to  the  pride  of  kings  and  priests, 

A  dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as  wide 

As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  are  now 

But  an  astonisliment ;  even  so  the  tools 

And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity. 

Amid  the  dwellings  of  the  peopled  earth, 

Stand,  not  o'erthrown,  but  unregarded  now. 

And  those  foul  shapes,  abhon-ed  by  god  and  man, 

Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a  form, 

Strange,  savage,  ghastly,  dark  and  execrable. 

Were  Jupiter,  the  tyrant  of  the  world  ; 

And  which  the  nations,  panic-stricken,  served 

With  blood,  and  hearts  broken  by  long  hope,  and  love 

Dragged  to  his  altars  soiled  and  garlandless, 

And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming  tears, 

Flattering  the  thing  they  feared,  which  fear  was  hate, 

Frown,  mouldering  fast,  o'er  their  abandoned  shrines : 

The  painted  vail,  by  those  who  were,  called  life, 

Which  mimicked,  as  with  colors  idly  spread. 

All  men  believed  and  hoped,  is  torn* aside  ; 

The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man  remains 

Sceptreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but  man 

Equal,  unclassed,  tribeless  and  nationless. 

Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the  king 

Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise  :  but  man 

Passsionless  —  no,  yet  free  from  guilt  or  pain, 

Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  suffered  them, 

Nor  yet  exempt,  though  ruling  them  like  slaves, 

From  chance  and  death  and  mutability. 

The  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  oversoar 

The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 

Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane. 


END    OF    THE    THIRD    ACT. 


ACT     IV. 

Scene — A  part  of  the  Forest  near  the  Cave  of  Prometheus. — 
Panthea  and  Ione  are  sleeping :  they  awaken  gradually  during 
the  first  Song. 

VOICE   OF   UNSEEN   SPIRITS. 

The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun  their  swift  shepherd 
To  their  folds  them  compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  289 

Hastes,  in  meteor-eclipsing-  array,  and  they  flee 

Beyond  his  blue  dwelling. 

As  fawns  flee  the  leopard, 
But  where  are  ye  ? 
A  Train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows  passes  by,  confusedly 
singing. 

Here,  oh  !  here  ! 

"We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  many  a  canceled  year  ! 

Spectres  we 

Of  the  dead  Hoars  be. 
We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh !  strew 

Hair,  not  yew ! 
Wet  the  dusty  pall  with  tears,  not  dew  ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  king  of  Hours  ! 

Haste,  oh  haste ! 

As  shades  are  chased, 
Trembling,  by  day,  from  heaven's  blue  waste. 

We  melt  a-way. 

Like  dissolving  spray. 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony. 

lONE. 

What  dark  forms  were  they  ? 

PANTHEA. 

The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray. 
With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 

Raked  together 
From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil. 

lONE. 

Have  they  past  ? 

PANTHEA. 

They  have  past; 
They  outspeeded  the  blast. 
While  'tis  said  they  are  fled : 

lONE. 

Whither,  oh  whither  ? 

PANTHEA. 

To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 

VOICE    OF   UNSEEN   SPIRITS. 

Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven, 
Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth. 
Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 
They  ax-e  gathered  and  driven 
19 


290  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

By  the  storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of  glee ! 
They  shake  with  emotion, 
They  dance  in  their  mirth. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing 
Old  songs  -with  new  gladness, 
The  billows  and  fountains 
Fresh  music  are  flinging. 
Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and  from  sea 
The  storms  mock  the  mountains 
With  the  thunder  of  gladness. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

lONE. 

What  charioteers  are  these  ? 

PANTHEA. 

Where  are  their  chariots  ? 

SEMICHORUS   OF   HOURS. 

The  voice  of  the  Spirits  of  Air  and  of  Earth 
Have  drawn  back  the  figured  curtain  of  sleep 
Which  covered  our  being  and  darkened  our  birth 
In  the  deep. 

A    VOICE. 

In  the  deep  ? 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Oh  !  below  the  deep. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

A  hundred  ages  we  bad  been  kept 
Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 
And  each  one  who  waked  as  his  brother  slept, 


Found  the  truth - 


SEMICHORUS    II. 

Worse  than  his  visions  were  ! 


SEMICHORUS   I, 

We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep  ; 
We  have  known  the  voice  of  Love  in  dreams ; 
We  have  felt  the  wand  of  Power,  and  leap  — 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning  beams ! 

CHORUS. 

Weave  the  dance  on  the  floor  of  the  breeze, 
Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light, 

Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees. 
To  check  its  flight  ere  the  cave  of  night. 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds 
Which  chased  the  Day  like  a  bleeding  deer, 

And  it  limped  and  stumbled  with  many  wounds 
Through  the  nightly  dells  of  the  desert  Year. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  291 

But  now,  oh  !  weave  the  mystic  measure 

Of  music  and  dance  and  shapes  of  light, 
Let  the  Hours  and  the  spirits  of  night  and  pleasure 

Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams  unite. 

A   VOICE. 

Unite. 

PANTHEA. 

See,  where  the  Spirits  of  the  human  mind 

Wrapped  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  bright  vails,  approach  ! 

CHORUS    OF    SPIRITS. 

We  join  the  throng 

Of  the  dance  and  the  song, 
By  the  whirlwind  of  gladness  borne  along; 

As  the  flying  fish  leap 

From  the  Indian  deep. 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds  half  asleep, 

CHORUS    OF    HOURS. 

Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet, 
For  sandals  of  lightning  are  on  your  feet, 
And  your  wings  are  soft  and  swift  as  thought. 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  vailed  not  ? 

CHORUS   OF    SPIRITS. 

We  come  from  the  mind 

Of  human  kind, 
Which  was  late  so  dusk  and  obscene  and  blind  ; 

Now  'tis  an  ocean 

Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion. 

From  that  deep  abyss 

Of  wonder  and  bliss, 
Whose  caverns  are  crystal  palaces  ; 

From  those  skiey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit  watching  your  dance,  ye  happy  Hours  ! 

From  the  dim  recesses 

Of  woven  caresses, 
Where  lovers  catch  ye  by  your  loose  tresses  ; 

From  the  azure  isles, 

Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles, 
Delaying  your  ships  with  her  siren  wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 

Of  man's  ear  and  eye, 
Roofed  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy ; 

From  the  murmurings 

Of  the  unsealed  springs 
Where  Science  bedews  nis  Daedal  wings. 

Years  after  years, 
Through  blood  and  tears 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds  and  hopes  and  fears, 


292  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

We  faded  and  flew, 
And  the  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  happiness  grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm. 

Are  sandaled  with  calm, 
And  the  dew  of  oar  wings  is  a  rain  of  balm  ; 

And  beyond  our  eyes 

The  human  love  lies 
Which  makes  all  it  gazes  on  paradise. 

CHORUS    or    SPIRITS   AND    HOURS. 

Then  weave  the  web  of  the  mystic  measure ; 
From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends  of  the  earth, 

Come,  swift  Spirits  of  might  and  of  pleasure, 
Fill  the  dance  and  the  music  of  mirth. 

As  the  waves  of  a  thousand  streams  rush  by 

To  an  ocean  of  splendor  and  harmony  ! 

CHORUS    OF   SPIRITS. 

Our  spoil  is  won. 

Our  task  is  done, 
We  are  free  to  dive  or  soar  or  run  ; 

Beyond  and  around, 

Or  within  the  bound 
Which  clips  the  world  with  darkness  round. 

We'll  pass  the  eyes 

Of  the  starry  skies 
Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize  : 

Death,  Chaos  and  Night 

From  the  sound  of  our  flight 
Shall  flee,  like  mist  from  a  tempest's  might. 

And  Earth,  Air  and  Light, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in  their  fiery  flight : 

And  Love,  Thought  and  Breath, 

The  powers  that  quell  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 

In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  to  wield  ; 

We  will  take  our  plan 

From  the  new  world  of  man, 
And  our  work  shall  be  called  the  Promethean. 

CHORUS   OF   HOURS. 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song  ; 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

We  beyond  heaven  are  driven  along : 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain  : 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  293 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Ceaseless  and  rapid  and  fierce  and  free 

With  the  spirits  which  build  a  new  earth  and  sea, 

And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven  could  never  be. 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Solemn  and  slow  and  serene  and  bright, 
Leading  the  Day,  and  outspeeding  the  Night, 
With  the  powers  of  a  world  of  perfect  light. 

SEMICHORUS    1. 

We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gathering  sphere, 
Till  the  trees  and  the  beasts  and  the  clouds  appear 
From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love,  not  fear. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

W"e  encircle  the  ocean  and  mountains  of  earth, 
And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 

CHORUS   OF    HOURS   AND    SPIRITS. 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song. 

Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain,  ~g. 

Wherever  we  fly  w^e  lead  along 

In  leashes,  like  star-beams,  soft  yet  strong. 

The  clouds  that  are  heavy  with  love's  sweet  rain. 

PANTHEA. 

Ha  !  they  are  gone  ! 

lONE. 

Yet  feel  you  no  delight 
From  the  past  sweetness  ? 

PANTHEA. 

As  the  bare  green  hill 
When  some  soft  cloud  vanishes  into  rain, 
Laughs  with  a  thousand  drops  of  sunny  water 
To  the  unpavilioned  sky  ! 

lONE. 

Even  while  vv^e  speak 
New^  notes  arise.     What  is  that  awful  sound  ? 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world, 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air 
.^olian  modulations. 

lONE. 

Listen  too. 
How  every  pause  is  filled  with  under-notes. 
Clear,  silveiy,  icy,  keen  aw^akening  tones, 
Which  pierce  the  sense  and  live  within  tlie  soul, 
As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crj'stal  air 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 


294  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

PANTHEA. 

But  see  vs'here,  through  t'wo  openings  in  the  forest 
Which  hanging  branches  overcanopy, 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 
Between  the  close  moss,  violet  inwoven, 
Have  made  their  path  of  melody,  like  sisters 
Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet  in  smiles, 
Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 
Of  lovely  grief  a  wood  of  sweet  sad  thoughts ; 
Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 
The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong  sound, 
Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet 
Under  the  ground  and  through  the  windless  air. 

lONE. 

I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest  boat 

In  w^hich  the  mother  of  the  months  is  borne 

By  ebbing  night  into  her  vs'estern  cave. 

When  she  upsprings  from  interlunar  dreams, 

O'er  which  is  curbed  an  orblike  canopy 

Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods 

Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil. 

Regard  likfe  shapes  in  an  enchanter's  glass ; 

Its  wheels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold, 

Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunder-storm 

Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 

When  the  sun  rushes  un<ler  it ;  they  roll 

And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward  wind  ; 

Within  it  sets  a  w^inged  infant,  white 

Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright  sno^v, 

Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost. 

Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind-flowing  folds 

Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl. 

Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white  light 

Scattered  in  strings ;  yet  its  two  eyes  are  heavens 

Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 

Within  seems  pouring,  u.s  a  storm  is  poured 

From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy  lashes, 

Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around 

With  fire  that  is  not  brightness  ;  in  its  hand 

It  sways  a  quivering  moon  beam,  from  whose  point 

A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot's  prow 

Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  \vhich  as  they  roll 

Over  the  grass  and  flowers  and  waves  wake  sounds. 

Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 

PANTHEA. 

And  from  the  other  opening  in  the  wood 
Ru.shes.  with  loud  and  whirlwind  harmony, 
A  sphere,  which  is  as  many  thousand  spheres, 
Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 
Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and  light : 
Ten  thousand  orbs  involving  and  involved. 
Purple  and  azure,  white,  green  and  golden, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  295 

Sphere  within  sphere  ;  and  every  space  between 

Peopled  \vith  unimaginable  shapes. 

Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  tlie  lampless  deep, 

Yet  each  inter-transpicuous,  and  they  whirl 

Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions, 

Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning, 

And  with  the  force  of  self-destroying  swiftness, 

Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly  roil  on, 

Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many  tones, 

Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 

With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 

Grinds  the  bright  brook  into  an  azure  mist 

Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light ; 

And  the  wild  odor  of  the  forest  flowers. 

The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air. 

The  emerald  light  of  leaf-entangled  beams 

Round  its  intense  yet  self-coutlicting  speed 

Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 

Which  drowns  the  sense.     Within  the  orb  itself, 

Pillowed  upon  its  alaba.ster  arms. 

Like  to  a  child  o'er  wearied  with  sweet  toil. 

On  its  own  folded  wings  and  wavy  hair, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep, 

And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving 

Amid  the  changing  light  of  their  own  smiles. 

Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in  dream. 

lONE. 

'Tis  only  mocking  the  orb's  harmony. 

PANTHEA. 

And  from  a  star  upon  its  forehead  shoot, 

Like  swords  of  azure  fire,  or  golden  spears 

With  tyrant  quelling  myrtle  overtwined, 

Embleming  heaven  and  earth  united  now. 

Vast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible  wheel 

Which  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter  than  thought. 

Filling  the  abyss  with  sun  like  lightnings, 

And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  transverse. 

Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  piei'ce  and  pass, 

Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep  heart ; 

Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold, 

Valueless  stones  and  unimagined  gems. 

And  caverns  on  crystalline  columns  poised 

With  vegetable  silver  overspread  ; 

Wells  of  unfathomed  fire,  and  water  springs 

Whence  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child  is  fed. 

Whose  vapors  clothe  earth's  monarch  mountain-tops 

With  kingly,  ermine  snow.     The  beams  flash  on 

And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 

Of  canceled  cycles  ;  anchors,  beaks  of  .ships ; 

Planks  turned  to  marble  ;  quivers,  lielms  and  spears, 

And  go rgon -headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 

Of  sythed  chariots,  and  the  emblazonry 


296  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Of  trophies,  standards  and  armorial  beasts, 
Round  which  death  laughed,  sepulchred  emblems 
Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin  ! 
The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast. 
Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew  over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  human  ;  see,  they  lie 
Their  monstrous  works,  and  uncouth  skeletons. 
Their  statues,  homes  and  fanes ;  prodigious  shapes 
Huddled  in  gray  annihilation,  split, 
Jammed  in  die  hard,  black  deep  ;  and  over  these. 
The  anatomies  of  unknow^n  winged  things. 
And  fishes  which  w^ere  isles  of  living  scale, 
And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 
The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their  last  pangs 
Had  ci'ushed  the  iron  crags ;  and  over  these 
The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 
Of  earth-convulsing  behemoth,  which  once 
Were  monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy  shores. 
And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth. 
Increased  and  multiplied  like  summer  v>^orms 
On  an  abandoned  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 
Wrapt  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloak,  and  they 
Yelled,  gasped,  and  were  abolished  ;  or  some  god 
Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  past,  and  cried. 
Be  not !     And  like  my  w^ords  they  were  no  more. 

THE   EARTH. 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  madness  ! 

The  boundless,  overflowing,  bursting  gladness, 

The  vaporous  exultation  not  to  be  confined ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  the  animation  of  delight 
Which  wraps  me,  like  an  atmosphere  of  light. 

And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its  own  wind. 

THE    MOO\. 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 

Happy  globe  of  land  and  air. 
Some  spirit  is  darted  like  a  beam  from  thee. 

Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame, 

And  passes  with  the  ■svarmtli  of  flame, 
With  love  and  odor  and  deep  melody 

Through  me,  through  me ! 

THE    EARTH. 

Ha !  ha  !  the  caverns  of  my  hoilo-w  mountains. 
My  cloven  fire-crags,  sound-exulting  fountains. 
Laugh  with  a  vast  and  inextinguishable  laughter. 
The  oceans  and  the  deserts  and  the  abysses 
And  the  deep  air's  unmeasured  wildernesses, 
Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows,  echoing  after. 

They  cry  aloud  as  I  do.     Scefttred  curse, 
Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  muifle  round  with  black  destruction  sending 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  297 

A  solid  cloud  to  rain  hot  thunder-stones, 
And  splinter  and  knead  down  my  children's  bones, 
All  I  bring  forth,  to  one  void  mass  battering  and  blending 

Until  each  crag-like  tower  and  storied  column, 

Palace  and  obelisk  and  temple  solemn, 
My  imperial  mountains  crowned  with  cloud  and  snow  and  fire ; 

My  sea-like  forests,  every  blade  and  blossom 

Which  finds  a  grave  or  cradle  in  my  bosom, 
Were  stamped  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a  lifeless  mire. 

How  art  thou  sunk,  withdrawn,  covered,  drunk  up 

By  thirsty  nothing,  as  the  brackish  cup 
Drained  by  a  desert-troop,  a  little  drop  for  all ; 

And  from  beneath,  around,  within,  above, 

Fining  thy  void  annihilation,  love 
Bursts  in  like  light  on  caves  cloven  by  the   thunder-ball. 

THE   MOON. 

The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 

Is  loosened  into  living  fountains. 
My  solid  oceans  flow  and  sing  and  shine : 

A  spii-it  from  my  heart  bursts  forth. 

It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth 
My  cold  bare  bosom :  Oh!  it  must  be  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know. 

Green  stalks  burst  forth,  and  bright  flowers  grow. 
And  living  shapes  upon  my  bosom  move  : 

Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air. 

Winged  clouds  soar  here  and  there. 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dreaming  of: 
'Tis  love,  all  love  ! 

THE    EARTH. 

It  interpenetrates  my  granite  mass. 

Through  tangled  roots  and  trodden  clay  doth  pass 
Into  the  utmost  leaves  and  delicatest  flowers  ; 

Upon  the  winds,  among  the  clouds  'tis  spread, 

It  wakes  a  life  in  the  forgotten  dead, 
They  breathe  a  spirit  up  from  their  obscurest  bowers. 

And  like  a  storm  bursting  its  cloudy  prison 
With  thunder  and  with  whirlwind  has  arisen 

Out  of  the  lampless  caves  of  unimagined  being: 

With  earthquake  shock  and  swiftness  making  shiver 
Thought's  stagnant  chaos,  unremoved  for  ever, 

Till  bate  and  fear  and  pain  light-vanquished  shadows,  fleeing, 

Leave  Man,  who  was  a  many-sided  miiror. 

Which  could  distort  to  many  a  shape  of  error, 
This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea  rellecting  love ; 

Which  over  all  his  kind,  as  the  sun's  heaven 

Gliding  o'er  ocean,  smooth,  serene  and  even 
Darting  from  staxry  depths  radiance  and  light,  doth  move; 


298  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

Leave  Man,  even  as  a  leprous  child  is  left, 

"Who  follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm  cleft 
Of  rocks,  through  which  the  might  of  healing  springs  is  poured , 

Then  when  it  wanders  home  with  rosy  smile, 

Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile 
It  is  a  spirit,  then  weeps  on  her  child  restored. 

Man,  oh,  not  men  !  a  chain  of  linked  thought, 

Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not, 
Compelling  the  elements  with  adamantine  stress  ; 

As  the  sun  rules,  even  with  a  tyrant's  gaze, 

The  unquiet  republic  of  the  maze 
Of  planets,  struggling  fierce  toward  heaven's  free  wilderness. 

Man,  one  harmonious  soul  of  many  a  soul. 

Whose  nature  is  its  own  divine  control, 
Where  all  things  How  to  all,  as  rivers  to  the  sea ; 

Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love  ; 

Labor  and  pain  and  grief  in  life's  green  grove 
Sport  like  tame  beasts,  none  knew  how  gentle  they  could  be  ! 

His  will,  with  all  mean  passions,  bad  delights 

And  selfish  cares,  its  trembling  satellites, 
A  spirit  ill  to  guide  but  mighty  to  obey. 

Is  as  a  tempest-winged  ship,  whose  helm 

Love  rules  through  waves  which  dare  not  overwhelm. 
Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own  its  sovereign  sway. 

All  things  confess  his  strength.     Through  the  cold  mass 

Of  marble  and  of  color  his  dreams  pass ; 
Bright  threads  whence  mothers  weave  the  robes  their  children  wear ; 

Language  is  a  perpetual  Orphic  .song, 

Which  rules  with  Daedal  harmony  a  throng 
Of  thoughts  and  forms  which  else  senseless  and  shapeless  were. 

The  lightning  is  his  slave  ;  heaven's  utmost  deep 

Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
They  pass  before  his  eye,  are  numbered,  and  roll  on ! 

The  tempest  is  his  steed,  he  strides  the  air ; 

And  the  abyss  shouts  from  her  depth  laid  bare, 
Heaven,  hast  thou  secrets  ?     Man  unveils  me  ;  I  have  none. 

THE   MOON. 

The  shadow  of  white  death  has  past 

From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  clinging  shroud  of  .solid  frost  and  .sleep  ; 

And  through  my  newly-woven  bowers. 

Wander  happy  paramours, 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who  keep 
Thy  vales  more  deep. 

THE    EARTH. 

As  the  dissolving  warmth  of  dawn  may  fold 

A  half  unfrozen  dew-globe,  green  and  gold 
And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winged  mist. 

And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue  day. 

Outlives  the  nooa.  and  on  the  .xiin's  last  ray 
Hangs  o'er  the  sea,  a  Heece  of  tire  and  anjethy.st. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  299 

THK    MOON. 

Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying 

In  the  light  which  is  undying 
Of  thine  own  joy  and  heaven's  smile  divine  ; 

All  suns  and  constellations  show^er 

On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  powder 
Which  doth  array  thy  sphere  ;  thou  pourest  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

THE    EAHTH. 

I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night, 

Which  points  into  the  heavens  dreaming  delight, 
Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted  sleep  ; 

As  a  youth  lulled  in  love-dreams  faintly  sighing, 

Under  the  shadow  of  his  beauty  lying, 
Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and  warmth  doth  keep. 

THE   MOON.  * 

As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse. 

When  soul  meets  soul  on  lovers'  lips. 
High  heai'ts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes  are  dull ; 

So,  w^hen  thy  shadow  falls  on  me, 

Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 
Covered  ;  of  thy  love,  Orb  most  beautiful, 

Full,  oh,  too  full ! 

Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun, 
Brightest  world  of  many  a  one ; 
Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest 
With  a  light  which  is  divinest 
Among  all  the  lamps  of  heaven 
To  whom  life  and  light  is  given ; 
I,  thy  crystal  paramour, 
Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power 
Like  the  polar  paradise, 
Magnet  like,  of  lovers'  eyes ; 
I,  a  most  enamored  maiden. 
Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 
With  the  pleasure  of  her  love, 
Maniac-like  around  thee  move 
Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride. 
On  thy  form  from  every  side, 
Xike  a  Maenad,  round  the  cup 
Which  Agave  lifted  up 
In  the  weird  Cadma.'an  forest. 
Brother,  wheresoe'er  thou  soarest 
I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow^ 
Through  the  heavens  wide  and  hollow, 
Sheltered  by  the  warm  embrace 
Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space. 
Drinking  from  thy  .sense  and  sight 
Beauty,  majesty  and  might, 
As  a  lover  or  chameleon 
Grows  like  what  it  looks  upon, 


300  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 

As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 

Glovs^s  like  solid  amethyst 
Athwart  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow, 

THE    EARTH. 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 

That  it  should  be  so. 
O  gentle  Moon,  the  voice  of  thy  delight 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender  light 
Soothing  the  seaman,  borne  the  summer  night 

Through  isles  for  ever  calm  ; 
O  gentle  Moon,  thy  crystal  accents  pierce 
"       The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe, 

Charming  the  tiger  Joy,  whose  tramplings  fierce 

Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 

PANTHEA. 

I  rise  as  from  a  bath  of  sparkling  water, 
A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks, 
Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 


Ah  me  !  sweet  sister. 
The  stream  of  sound  has  ebbed  av^ay  from  us. 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave, 
Because  your  words  fall  like  the  clear  soft  dew 
Shaken  from  a  bathing  ■wood-nymph's  limbs  and  hair. 

PANTHEA. 

Peace  !  peace !  —  a  mighty  Power,  which  is  as  darkness, 

Is  rising  out  of  Earth,  and  from  the  sky 

Is  showered  like  night,  and  from  within  the  air 

Bursts,  like  eclipse  which  had  been  gathered  up 

Into  the  pores  of  sunlight :  the  bright  visions 

"Wherein  the  singing  spirits  rode  and  shone. 

Gleam  like  pale  meteors  through  a  watery  night. 

lONE. 

There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon  mine  ear. 

PANTHEA. 

A  universal  sound  like  words  :  oh,  list ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Thou,  Earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul, 
Sphere  of  divinest  shapes  and  harmonies. 

Beautiful  orb  !  gathering  as  thou  dost  roll 

The  love  w^hich  paves  thy  path  along  the  skies : 

THE   EARTH. 

I  hear :  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND.  301 

DEMOGORGON. 

Thou,  Moon,  which  gazest  on  the  nightly  Earth 

With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee  ; 
While  each  to  men  and  beasts  and  the  swift  birth 

Of  birds,  is  beauty,  love,  calm,  harmony : 

THE   MOON. 

I  hear :  I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee  ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars  !  demons  and  gods, 

Ethereal  dominations  !  who  possess 
Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 

Beyond  heaven's  constellated  wilderness  : 

A  VOICE    FROM    ABOVE. 

Our  great  republic  hears  :  we  are  blest,  and  bless. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  happy  dead  !  whom  beams  of  brightest  verse 

Are  clouds  to  hide,  not  colors  to  portray, 
Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 

Which  once  ye  saw  and  suffered  — 

A   VOICE   FROM    BESEATH- 

Or  as  they 
Whom  we  have  left,  we  change  and  pass  away. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 

From  man's  high  mind  even  to  the  central  stone 

Of  sullen  lead  —  from  heaven's  star-fretted  domes 
To  the  dull  weed  some  sea-worm  battens  on  : 

A    CONFUSED    VOICE. 

We  hear  :  thy  words  weaken  Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Spirits !  whose  homes  are  flesh  ;  ye  beasts  and  birds, 
Ye  worms  and  fish  ;  ye  living  leaves  and  buds; 

Lightning  and  wind  ;  and  ye  untamable  herds, 
Meteors  and  mists,  which  throng  air's  solitudes  : 

A   VOICE. 

Thy  voice  to  us  is  wind  among  still  woods. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Man  !  who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave  ; 

A  dupe  and  a  deceiver  ;  a  decay ; 
A  traveler  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

Through  the  dim  night  of  this  immortal  day  : 

ALL. 

Speak  !  thy  strong  words  may  never  pass  away. 

DEMOGORGON. 

This  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm 

At  the  Eartli-boni's  spell  yawns  for  Heaven's  despotism, 


302  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 

And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through  the  deep 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart  —  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dread  endurance  —  from  the  slippery,  steep 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony  —  springs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  w^ings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom  and  Endurance  — 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 

"Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's  strength; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand.  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should  free 

The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with  his  length, 
These  are  the  spells  by  \\'hich  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom  : 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite  ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night. 

To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent ; 
To  love  and  bear;  to  hope  til!  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates  : 

Neither  to  change  nor  falter  nor  repent ; 
This,  like  thy  glory.  Titan  !  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free ; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire  and  Victory ! 


END  OF  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


NOTE  ON  THE  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


BY   MRS.    SHELLEY. 


On  the  12th  of  March,  1818,  Shelley  quitted  England,  never  to  return. 
His  principal  motive  was  the  hope  that  his  health  would  he  improved 
l)y  a  milder  climate  ;  he  suffered  very  much  during  the  winter  previous 
to  his  emigration,  and  this  decided  his  vacillating  purpose.  In  De- 
cember, J817,  he  had  written  from  Marlow  to  a  friend,  saying: 

"  My  health  has  been  materially  worse.  My  feelings  at  intervals  are 
of  a  deadly  and  torpid  kind,  or  awakened  to  such  a  state  of  unnatural 
and  keen  excitement,  that  only  to  instance  the  organ  of  sight,  I  find 
the  very  blades  of  grass  and  the  boughs  of  distant  trees  present  them- 
selves to  me  with  microscopic  distinctness.  Toward  evening  I  sink 
into  a  state  of  lethargy  and  inanimation,  and  often  remain  for  hours 
on  the  sofa  between  sleep  and  waking,  a  prey  to  the  most  painful  irri- 
tability of  thought.  Such,  with  little  intermission,  is  my  condition. 
'I  he  hours  devoted  to  study  are  selected  with  vigilant  caution  from 
among  these  periods  of  endurance.  It  is  not  for  this  that  I  think  of 
traveling  to  Italy,  even  if  I  knew  that  Italy  would  relieve  me.  But  I 
have  e.xperienced  a  decisive  pulmonary  attack,  and  although  at  present 
it  has  passed  away  without  any  considerable  vestige  of  its  existence, 
yet  tills  symptom  sufficiently  shows  the  true  nature  of  my  disease  to 
be  consumptive.  It  is  to  my  advantage  that  this  malady  is  in  its  na- 
ture slow,  and,  if  one  is  sufficiently  alive  to  its  advances,  is  susceptible 
ol  cure  from  a  warm  climate.  In  the  event  of  its  assuming  any  de- 
cided shape,  it.  would  be  my  duly  to  go  to  Italy  without  delay.  It  is  not 
mere  health,  but  life,  that  I  should  seek,  and  that  not  for  my  own  sake  ; 
I  feel  1  am  capable  of  trampling  on  all  such  weakness—  but  for  the 
sake  o(  ihoSe  to  whom  my  life  may  be  a  source  of  happiness,  utility, 
security  and  honor  —  and  to  some  of  whom  my  death  might  be  all  that 
is  the  reverse." 

In  almost  every  respect  his  journey  to  Italy  was  advantageous.  He 
left  behind  friends  to  whom  he  was  attached,  but  cares  of  a  thousand 
kinds,  many  springing  from  his  lavish  generosity,  crowded  round  him 
in  his  native  country  ,  and  except  the  society  of  one  or  two  friends, 
he  had  no  compensation.  The  climate  caused  him  to  consume  half 
his  existence  in  helpless  suffering  His  dearest  pleasure,  the  free  en- 
joyment of  the  scenes  of  nature,  was  marred  by  the  same  circum- 
stance. 

He  went  direct  to  Italy,  avoiding  even  Paris,  and  did  not  make  any 
pause  till  he  arrived  at  Milan.    The  first  aspect  of  Italy  enchanted 


304   NOTE  ON  THE  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 

Shelley  ;  it  seemed  a  garden  of  delight  placed  beneath  a  clearer  and 
brighter  heaven  than  any  he  had  lived  under  before.  He  wrote  long 
descriptive  letters  during  the  first  year  of  his  residence  in  Italy,  which, 
as  compositions,  are  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  and  show  how 
truly  he  appreciated  and  studied  the  wonders  of  nature  and  art  in  that 
divine  land. 

The  poetical  spirit  within  him  speedily  revived  with  all  the  power 
and  with  more  than  all  the  beauty  of  his  first  attempts.  He  meditated 
three  subjects  as  the  groundwork  for  lyrical  dramas.  One  was  the 
story  of  Tasso  ;  of  this  a  slight  fragment  of  a  song  of  Tasso  remains. 
The  other  was  one  founded  on  the  book  of  Job,  which  he  never  aban- 
doned in  idea,  but  of  which  no  trace  remains  among  his  papers.  The 
third  was  the  '  Prometheus  Unbound.'  The  Greek  tragedians  were 
now  his  most  familiar  companions  in  his  wanderings,  and  the  sublime 
majesty  of  JEschylus  filled  him  with  wonder  and  delight.  The  father 
of  Greek  tragedy  does  not  possess  the  pathos  of  Sophocles  nor  the  va- 
riety and  tenderness  of  Euripedes  ;  the  interest  on  which  he  founds 
his  dramas  is  often  elevated  above  human  vicissitudes  into  the  mighty 
passions  and  throes  of  gods  and  demigods  —  such  fascinated  the  ab- 
stract imagination  of  Shelley. 

We  spent  a  month  at  Milan,  visiting  the  lake  of  Como  during  that 
interval.  Thence  we  passed  in  succession  to  Pisa,  Leghorn,  the 
Baths  of  Lucca,  Venice,  Este,  Rome,  Naples,  and  back  again  to  Rome, 
whither  we  returned  early  in  March,  1819.  During  all  this  time  Shelley 
meditated  the  subject  of  his  drama,  and  wrote  portions  of  it.  Other 
poems  were  composed  during  this  interval,  and  while  at  the  Bagni  di 
Lucca  he  translated  Plato's  'Symposium.'  But  though  he  diversified 
his  studies,  his  thoughts  centered  in  the  '  Prometheus.'  At  last,  when 
at  Rome,  during  a  bright  and  beautiful  spring,  he  gave  up  his  whole 
time  to  the  composition.  The  spot  selected  for  his  study  was,  as  he 
mentions  in  his  preface,  the  mountainous  ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Cara- 
calla.  These  are  little  known  to  the  ordinary  visitor  at  Rome.  He 
describes  them  in  a  letter  with  thai  poetry  and  delicacy  and  truth  of 
description  which  render  his  narrated  impressions  of  scenery  of  une- 
qualed  beauty  and  interest. 

At  first  he  completed  the  drama  in  three  acts.  It  was  not  till  sev- 
eral months  after,  when  at  Florence,  that  he  conceived  that  a  fourth 
act,  a  sort  of  hymn  of  rejoicing  in  the  fulfillment  of  the  prophecies 
with  regard  to  Prometheus,  ought  to  be  added  to  complete  the  com- 
position. 

The  prominent  feature  of  Shelley's  theory  of  the  destiny  of  the  hu- 
man species  was,  that  evil  is  not  inherent  in  the  system  of  the  crea- 
tion, but  an  accident  that  might  be  expelled.  This  also  forms  a  portion 
of  Christianity  ;  God  made  earth  and  man  perfect,  till  he,  by  his  fall, 

"  Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe." 

Shelley  believed  that  mankind  had  only  to  will  that  there  should  be 
no  evil,  and  there  would  be  none.  It  is  not  my  part  in  these  notes 
to  notice  the  arguments  that  have  been  urged  against  this  opinion,  but 
to  mention  the  fact  that  he  entertained  it,  and  was  indeed  attached  to 
it  with  fervent  enthusiasm.  That  man  could  be  so  perfectionized  as 
to  be  able  to  expel  evil  from  his  own  nature  and  from  the  greater  part 
of  the  creation,  was  the  cardinal  point  of  his  system.  And  the  subject 
he  loved  best  to  dwell  on  was  the  image  of  One  warring  against  the 
Evil  Principle,  oppressed  not  only  by  it  but  by  all,  even  the  good,  who 
were  de'uded  into  considering  evil  a  necessary  portion  of  humanity. 
A  victim  full  of  fortitude  and  hope,  and  the  spirit  of  triumph  emanating 
from  a  reliance  in  the  ultimate  omnipotence  of  good  —  such  he  had 
depicted  in  his  last  poem,  when  ho  made  Laon  the  enemy  and  the  vic- 
tim of  tyrants.     He  now  took  a  more  idealized  image  of  the  same  sub- 


NOTE  ON  THE  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND.   305 

ject.  He  followed  certain  classical  authorities  in  figuring  Saturn  as 
the  good  principle,  Jupiter  the  usurping  evil  one,  and  Prometheus  as 
the  regenerator,  who,  unable  to  bring  mankind  back  to  primitive  inno- 
cence, used  knowledge  as  a  weapon  to  defeat  evil,  by  leading  man- 
kind beyond  the  state  wherein  they  are  sinless  through  ignorance,  to 
that  in  which  they  are  virtuous  through  wisdom.  Jupiter  punished 
the  temerity  of  the  Titan  by  chaining  him  to  a  rock  of  Caucasus,  and 
causing  a  vulture  to  devour  his  still-renewed  heart.  There  was  a 
prophecy  afloat  in  heaven  portending  the  fall  of  Jove,  the  secret  of 
averting  which  was  known  only  to  Prometheus  ;  and  the  god  offered 
freedom  from  torture  on  condition  of  its  being  communicated  to  him. 
According  to  the  mythological  story  this  referred  to  the  offspring  of 
Thetis,  who  was  destined  to  be  greater  than  his  father.  Prometheus 
at  last  bought  pardon  for  his  crime  of  enriching  mankind  with  his  gifts, 
by  revealing  the  prophecy.  Hercules  killed  the  vulture,  and  set  him 
free,  and  Thetis  was  married  to  Peleus,  the  father  of  Achilles. 

Shelley  adapted  the  catastrophe  of  this  story  to  his  peculiar  views. 
The  son,  greater  than  his  father,  born  of  the  nuptials  of  Jupiter  and 
Thetis,  was  to  dethrone  Evil,  and  bring  back  a  happier  reign  than  that 
of  Saturn.  Prometheus  defies  the  power  of  his  enemy,  and  endures 
centuries  of  torture,  till  the  hour  arrives  when  Jove,  blind  to  the  real 
event,  but  darkly  guessing  that  some  great  good  to  himself  will  flow, 
espouses  Thetis.  At  the  moment  the  Primal  Power  of  the  world 
drives  him  from  his  usurped  throne,  and  Strengtii,  in  the  person  of 
Hercules,  liberates  Humanity,  typified  in  Prometheus,  from  the  tor- 
tures generated  by  evil  done  or  sufl^ered.  Asia,  one  of  the  Oceanides, 
is  the  wife  of  Prometheus  :  she  was,  according  to  other  mythological 
interpretations,  the  same  as  Venus  and  Nature.  When  the  Benefac- 
tor of  Mankind  is  liberated,  Nature  resumes  the  beauty  of  her  prime, 
and  is  united  to  her  husband,  the  emblem  of  the  human  race,  in  per- 
fect and  happy  union.  In  the  Fourth  Act  the  poet  gives  further  scope 
to  his  imagination,  and  idealizes  the  forms  of  creation,  such  as  we  know 
them,  instead  of  such  as  they  appeared  to  the  Greeks.  Maternal  Earth, 
the  mighty  parent,  is  superseded  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth  —  the  guide 
of  our  planet  through  the  realms  of  sky  —  while  his  fair  and  weaker 
companion  and  attendant,  the  Spirit  of  the  Moon,  receives  bliss  from 
the  annihilation  of  Evil  in  the  superior  sphere. 

Shelley  develops,  more  particularly  in  the  lyrics  of  this  drama,  his  ab- 
struse and  imaginative  theories  with  regard  to  the  Creation.  It  re- 
quires a  mind  as  subtle  and  penetrating  as  his  own  to  understand  the 
mystic  meanings  scattered  throughout  the  poem.  They  elude  the 
ordinary  reader  by  their  abstraction  and  delicacy  of  distinction,  but 
they  are  far  from  vague.  It  was  his  design  to  write  prose  metaphysi- 
cal essays  on  the  nature  of  man,  which  would  have  served  to  explain 
much  of  what  is  obscure  in  his  poetry  ;  a  few  scattered  fragments  of 
observations  and  remarks  alone  remain.  He  considered  these  philo- 
sophical views  of  mind  and  nature  to  be  instinct  with  the  intensest 
spirit  of  poetry. 

More  popular  poets  clothe  the  ideal  with  familiar  and  sen.sible  im- 
agery. Shelley  loved  to  idealize  the  real  —  to  gift  the  mechanism  of 
the  material  universe  with  a  soul  and  a  voice,  and  to  bestow  such 
also  on  the  most  delicate  and  abstract  emotions  and  thoughts  of 
the  mind.  Sophocles  was  his  great  master  in  this  species  of  im- 
agery. 

I  find  in  one  of  his  manuscript  books  some  remarks  on  a  line  in  the 
'  (Edipus  Tyrannus,'  which  shows  at  once  the  critical  subtlety  of  Shel- 
ley's mind,  and  explains  his  apprehension  of  those  '  minute  and  re- 
mote distinctions  of  feeling,  whether  relative  to  external  nature  or 
the  Uving  beings  which  surround  us,'  which  he  pronounces,  in  the 
letter  quoted  in  the  note  to  the  '  Revolt  of  Islam,'  to  comprehend  all 
that  is  sublime  in  man  : 

20 


306   NOTE  ON  THE  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 

"  In  the  Greek  Shakspeare,  Sophocles,  we  find  the  image  — 

IloXXas  S'  hSovs  eXOovTU  (ppovriSos  nXdvon. 

A.  line  of  almost  unfathomable  depth  of  poetry,  yet  how  simple  are  the 
images  in  which  it  is  arrayed  !  — 

Coming  to  many  ways  in  the  wanderings  of  careful  thought. 

If  the  words  oSovs  and  nXavois  had  not  been  used,  the  line  might  have 
been  explained  in  a  metaphorical  instead  of  an  absolute  sense,  as  we 
say  '  ways  and  means,'  and  wanderings  for  error  and  confusion  ;  but 
they  meant  literally  paths  or  roads,  such  as  we  tread  with  our  feet  ; 
and  wanderings,  such  as  a  man  makes  when  he  loses  himself  in  a 
desert,  or  roams  from  city  to  city,  as  (Edipus,  the  speaker  of  this  verse, 
was  destined  to  wander,  blind  and  asking  charity.  What,  a  picture  does 
this  line  suggest  of  the  mind  as  a  wilderness  of  intricate  paths,  wide 
as  the  universe,  which  is  here  made  its  symbol,  a  world  within  a 
world,  which  he,  who  seeks  some  knowledge  with  respect  to  what  he 
ought  to  do,  searches  throughout,  as  he  would  search  the  external 
universe  for  some  valued  thing  which  was  hidden  from  him  upon  its 
surface  !" 

In  reading  Shelley's  poetry,  we  often  find  similar  verses,  resembling 
but  not  imitating  the  Greek  in  this  species  of  imagery  ;  for  though  he 
adopted  the  style,  he  gifted  it  with  that  originality  of  form  and  color- 
ing which  sprung  from  his  own  genius. 

In  the  '  Prometheus  Unbound,'  Shelley  fulfills  the  promise  quoted 
from  a  letter  in  a  note  on  the  'Revolt  of  Islam.'*  The  tone  of  the 
composition  is  calmer  and  more  majestic,  tlie  poetry  more  perfect  as 
a  whole,  and  the  imagination  displayed  at  once  more  pleasingly  beau- 
tiful and  more  varied  and  daring.  The  description  of  the  Hours,  as 
they  are  seen  in  the  cave  of  Demogorgon,  is  an  instance  of  this  ;  it 
fills  the  mind  as  the  most  charming  picture.  We  long  to  see  an  artist 
at  work  to  bring  to  our  view  the 

cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winggd  steeds, 


Which  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each  there  stands 

A  wild-eyed  charioteer,  urging  tlieir  flight. 

Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  then)  there, 

And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars  : 

Others,  wilh  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 

With  eager  lips  tlie  wind  of  their  own  speed. 

As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before. 

And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.     Their  bright  locks 

Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  liair :  they  all 

Sweep  onward." 

Through  the  whole  poem  there  reigns  a  sort  of  calm  and  holy  spirit 
of  love  ;  It  soothes  the  tortured,  and  is  hope  to  the  expectant,  till  the 
prophecy  is  fulfilled,  and  Love,  untainted  by  any  evil,  becomes  the  law 
of  the  world. 

England  had  been  rendered  a  painful  residence  to  Shelley,  as  much 
by  the  sort  of  persecution  with  which  in  those  days  all  men  of  liberal 
opinions  were  visited,  and  by  the  injustice  he  had  lately  endured  in  the 
court  of  chancery,  as  by  the  symptoms  of  disease  which  made  him  re- 

*  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  that  poem,  it  struck  me  that  the  poet  had  in- 
dulged in  an  exaggerated  view  of  the  evils  of  restored  despotism,  which,  however  iiyu 
rious  and  degrading,  were  less  openly  sanguinary  than  the  triumph  of  anarchy,  such  as 
it  appeared  in  France  at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  Butat  this  timea  book  — '  Scenes 
of  Spanish  Life,'  translated  by  Lieutenant  Crawford  from  the  German  of  Dr.  Huber  of 
Rostock  —  fell  into  my  hands.  The  account  of  the  triumph  of  the  j)riest3  acd  the  ser- 
viles,  after  the  French  invasion  of  Spain  in  18'2.3,  bears  a  strong  and  frightful  reseiublance 
to  some  of  the  descriptions  of  the  massacre  of  the  patriots  in  the  '  Revolt  of  Isfaun.' 


NOTE  ON  THE  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND.   307 

gard  a  visit  to  Italy  as  necessary  to  prolong  his  life.  An  exile,  and 
strongly  impressed  with  the  feeling  that  the  majority  of  his  country- 
men regarded  him  with  sentiments  of  aversion  such  as  his  own  heart 
could  experience  toward  none,  he  sheltered  himself  from  such  disgust- 
ing and  painful  thoughts  in  the  calm  retreats  of  poeiry,  and  built  up 
a  world  of  his  own,  with  the  more  pleasure,  since  he  hoped  to  induce 
some  one  or  two  to  believe  that  the  earth  might  become  such,  did 
mankind  themselves  consent.  The  charm  of  the  Roman  climate  helped 
to  clothe  his  thoughts  in  greater  beauty  than  they  had  ever  worn  be- 
fore. And  as  he  wandered  among  the  ruins,  made  one  with  nature  in 
their  decay,  or  gazed  on  the  Praxitelean  shapes  that  throng  the  Vatican, 
the  Capitol  and  the  palaces  of  Rome,  his  soul  inibibed  forms  of  loveli- 
ness which  became  a  portion  of  itself.  There  are  many  passages  in 
the  '  Prometheus'  which  show  the  intense  delight  he  received  from 
such  studies,  and  give  back  the  impression  with  a  beauty  of  poetical 
description  peculiarly  his  own.  He  felt  this  as  a  poet  must  feel  when 
he  satisfies  himself  by  the  result  of  his  labors,  and  he  wrote  from  Rome, 
«  My  '  Prometheus  Unbound'  is  just  finished,  and  in  a  month  or  two  I 
shall  send  it.  It  is  a  drama,  with  characters  and  mechanism  of  a  kind 
yet  unattempted,  and  I  think  the  execution  is  better  than  any  of  my 
former  attempts." 

I  may  mention,  for  the  information  of  the  more  critical  reader,  that 
the  verbal  alterations  in  this  edition  of  ♦  Prometheus'  are  made  from 
a  list  of  errata  written  by  Shelley  himself. 


THE    CENCI 

IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


DEDICATION. 


TO    LEIGH   HUNT,    E  S  a. 

My  dear  Friend  : 

I  INSCRIBE  with  your  name,  from  a  distant  country,  and  after  an 
absence  whose  months  have  seemed  years,  this  the  latest  of  my  liter- 
ary efforts. 

Those  writings  which  I  have  hitherto  published  have  been  little 
else  than  visions  which  impersonate  my  own  apprehensions  of  the 
beautiful  and  the  just.  I  can  also  perceive  in  them  the  literary  defects 
incidental  to  youth  and  impatience :  they  are  dreams  of  what  ought  to 
be  or  may  be.  The  drama  which  I  now  present  to  you  is  a  sad  reality. 
I  lay  aside  the  presumptuous  attitude  of  an  instructor,  and  am  con- 
tent to  paint,  with  such  colors  as  my  own  heart  furnishes,  that  which 
has  been. 

Had  I  known  a  person  more  highly  endowed  than  yourself  with  all 
that  it  becomes  a  man  to  possess,  I  had  solicited  for  this  work  the 
ornament  of  his  name.  One  more  gentle,  honorable,  innocent  and 
brave  ;  one  of  more  exalted  toleration  for  all  who  do  and  think  evil, 
and  yet  himself  more  free  from  evil ;  one  who  knows  better  how  to 
receive  and  how  to  confer  a  benefit,  though  he  must  ever  confer  far 
more  than  he  can  receive  ;  one  of  simpler  and  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  word  of  purer  life  and  manners,  I  never  knew :  and  I  had 
already  been  fortunate  in  friendships  when  your  name  was  added  to 
the  list. 


312  DEDICATION. 

In  that  patient  and  irreconcilable  enmity  with  domestic  and  political 
tyranny  and  imposture  which  the  tenor  of  your  life  has  illustrated 
and  which,  had  I  health  and  talents,  should  illustrate  mine,  let  us, 
comforting  each  other  in  our  task,  live  and  die. 
All  happiness  attend  you  ! 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Pebcy  B.  Shelley. 

Ranie,  May  29,  1819. 


1 

I 


PREFACE. 


A  MANUSCRIPT  was  communicated  to  me  during  my  travels  in  Italy 
which  was  copied  from  the  archives  of  the  Cenci  palace  at  Rome,  and 
contains  a  detailed  account  of  the  horrors  which  ended  in  the  extinc- 
tion of  one  of  the  noblest  and  richest  families  of  that  city,  during  the 
pontificate  of  Clement  VIII.,  in  the  year  1599.  The  story  is,  that  an 
old  man,  having  spent  his  life  in  debauchery  and  wickedness,  con- 
ceived at  length  an  implacable  hatred  toward  his  children  —  which 
showed  itself  toward  one  daughter  under  the  form  of  an  incestuous 
passion,  aggravated  by  every  circumstance  of  cruelty  and  violence. 
This  daughter,  after  long  and  vain  attempts  to  escape  from  what  she 
considered  a  perpetual  contamination  both  of  body  and  mind,  at  length 
plotted  with  her  mother-in-law  and  brother  to  murder  their  common 
tyrant.  The  young  maiden,  who  was  urged  to  this  tremendous  deed 
by  an  impulse  which  overpowered  its  horror,  was  evidently  a  most 
gentle  and  amiable  being  —  a  creature  formed  to  adorn  and  be  admired, 
and  thus  violently  thwarted  from  her  nature  by  the  necessity  of  cir- 
cumstances and  opinion.  The  deed  was  quickly  discovered,  and  in 
spite  of  the  most  earnest  prayers  made  to  the  pope  by  the  highest  per- 
sons in  Rome,  tlie  criminals  were  put  to  death.  The  old  man  had, 
during  his  life,  repeatedly  bougiit  his  pardon  from  the  pope  for  capital 
crimes  of  the  most  enormous  and  unspeakable  kind,  at  the  price  of  a 
hundred  thousand  crowns  ;  the  death  therefore  of  his  victims  can 
scarcely  be  accounted  for  by  the  love  of  justice.  The  pope,  among 
other  motives  for  severity,  probably  felt  that  whoever  killed  the  Count 
Cenci,  deprived  his  treasury  of  a  certain  and  copious  source  of  reve- 
nue.* Such  a  story,  if  told  so  as  to  present  to  the  reader  all  the  feel- 
ings of  those  who  once  acted  it  —  their  hopes  and  fears,  their  confi- 
dences and  misgivings,  their  various  interests,  passions  and  opinions, 
acting  upon  and  with  each  other,  yet  all  conspiring  to  one  tremendous 
and  —  would  be  as  a  light  to  make  apparent  some  of  the  most  dark  and 
jpcret  caverns  of  the  human  heart. 

On  my  arrival  at  Rome  I  found  that  the  story  of  the  Cenci  was  a 
subject  not  to  be  mentioned  in  Italian  society  without  awakening  a 
deep  and  breathless  interest,  and  that  the  feelings  of  the  company 
never  failed  to  incline  to  a  romantic  pity  for  the  wrongs  and  a  passion- 
ate exculpation  of  the  horrible  deed  to  which  they  urged  her,  who  has 
been  mingled  two  centuries  with  the  common  dust.    AH  ranks  of 

*  Tho  papal  government  formerly  took  the  most  extraordinary  precautions  a^nst  the 
publicity  ot  facts  which  ofl'er  so  tragical  a  demonstration  of  its  own  wickedness  and 
weakness  :  so  that  the  communication  of  the  MS.  Iwd  become,  until  very  lately,  a  matt«T 
of  some  difficulty. 


314  PREFACE. 

people  knew  the  outlines  of  this  history,  and  participated  in  the  over- 
whelming interest  whicli  it  seems  to  have  the  magic  of  exciting  in 
the  human  heart.  I  had  a  copy  of  Guido's  picture  of  Beatrice,  which 
is  preserved  in  the  Colonna  palace,  and  my  servant  instantly  recog- 
nised it  as  the  portrait  of  La  Cenci. 

This  national  and  universal  interest  which  the  story  produces  and 
has  produced  for  two  centuries,  and  among  all  ranks  of  people  in  a 
great  city,  where  the  imagination  is  kept  for  ever  active  and  awake, 
first  suggested  to  me  the  conception  of  its  fitness  for  a  dramatic  pur- 
pose. In  fact.it  is  a  tragedy  whicli  has  already  received,  from  its  ca- 
pacity of  awakening  and  sustaining  the  sympathy  of  men,  approbation 
and  success.  Nothing  remained,  as  I  imagined,  but  to  clothe  it  to  the 
apprehension  of  my  countrymen  in  such  language  and  action  as  would 
bring  it  home  to  their  hearts.  The  deepest  and  the  sublimest  tragic 
compositions,  'King  Lear'  and  the  two  plays  in  which  the  story  of 
CEdipus  is  told,  were  stories  which  already  existed  in  tradition,  as 
matters  of  popular  belief  and  interest,  before  Shakspeare  and  Sopho- 
cles made  them  familiar  to  the  sympathy  of  all  succeeding  generations 
of  mankind. 

This  story  of  the  Cenci  is  indeed  eminently  fearful  and  monstrous  : 
anything  like  a  dry  exhibition  of  it  on  the  stage  would  be  insupporta- 
ble. The  person  who  would  treat  such  a  subject  must  increase  the 
ideal,  and  diminish  the  actual  horror  of  the  events,  so  that  the  pleas- 
ure which  arises  from  the  poetry  which  exists  in  these  tempestuous 
sufferings  and  crimes,  may  mitigate  the  pain  of  the  contemplation  of 
the  moral  deformity  from  which  they  sprins.  Tiiere  must  also  be 
nothing  attempted  to  make  the  exhibition  subservient  to  what  is  vul- 
garly called  a  moral  purpose.  The  highest  moral  purpose  aimed  at  in 
the  highest  species  of  the  drama,  is  the  teaching  of  the  human  heart, 
through  its  sympathies  and  antipathies,  the  knowledge  of  itself  —  in 
proportion  to  the  possession  of  which  knowledge,  every  human  being 
is  wise,  just,  sincere,  tolerant  and  kind.  If  dogmas  can  do  more  it  is 
well:  but  a  drama  is  no  fit  place  for  the  enforcement  of  them.' i  Un- 
doubtedly no  person  can  be  truly  dishonored  by  the  act  of  another;), 
and  the  fit  return  to  make  to  the  most  enormous  injuries  is  kindness 
and  forbearance,  and  a  resolution  to  convert  the  injurer  from  his  dark 
passions  by  peace  and  love^.  Revenge,  retaliation,  atonement,  are  per- 
nicious mistakes.  If  Beatrice  had  thought  in  this  manner,  she  would 
have  been  wiser  and  better),  but  she  would  never  have  been  a  tragic 
character:  the  few  whom  such  an  exhibition  would  have  interested, 
could  never  have  been  sufficiently  interested  for  a  dramatic  purpose, 
from  the  want  of  finding  sympathy  in  their  interest  among  the  mass 
who  surround  them.  If  is  in  the  restless  and  anatomizing  casuistry 
with  which  men  seek  the  justification  of  Beatrice,  yet  feel  that  she 
has  done  what  needs  justification  ;  it  is  in  the  superstitious  horror 
with  which  they  contemplate  alike  her  wrongs  and  their  revenge,  that 
the  dramatic  character  of  what  she  did  and  sufl'ered  consists. 

I  have  endeavored  as  nearly  as  possible  to  represent  the  characters 
as  they  probably  were,  and  have  sought  to  avoid  the  error  of  making 
them  actuated  by  my  own  conceptions  of  right  or  wrong,  false  or  true^ 
thus  under  a  thin  vail  converting  names  and  actions  of  the  sixteenth 
century  into  cold  impersonations  of  my  own  mind.  They  are  repre- 
sented as  catholics,  and  as  catholics  deeply  tinged  with  religion.  To 
a  protestant  apprehension  there  will  appear  something  unnatural  in 
the  earnest  and  perpetual  sentiment  of  the  relations  between  God  and 
man  which  pervade  the  tragedy  of  the  Cenci.  It  will  especially  be 
startled  at  the  combination  of  an  undoubting  persuasion  of  the  truth 
of  the  popular  religion,  with  a  cool  and  determined  perseverance  in 
enormous  guilt.  But  religion  in  Italy  is  not,  as  in  protestant  coun- 
tries, a  cloak  to  be  worn  on  particular  days  ;  or  a  passport  which  those 
who  do  not  wish  to  be  railed  at  carry  with  them  to  exhibit ;  or  a  gloomy 


PREFACE.  315 

passion  for  penetrating  the  impenetrable  mysteries  of  our  being,  which 
terrifies  its  possessor  at  the  darkness  of  the  abyss  to  the  brink  of  which 
it  has  conducted  him.  Religion  co-exists,  as  it  were,  in  the  mind  of 
an  Italian  catliolic  with  a  faith  in  that  of  which  all  men  have  the  most 
certain  knowledge.  It  is  interwoven  with  the  whole  fabric  of  life. 
It  is  adoration,  faith,  submission,  penitence,  blind  admiration  :  not  a 
rule  for  moral  conduct.  It  has  no  necessary  connection  with  any  one 
virtue.  The  most  atrocious  villain  may  be  rigidly  devout,  and,  with- 
out any  shock  to  established  faith,  confess  himself  to  be  so.  Religion 
pervades  intensely  the  whole  frame  of  society,  and  is,  according  to 
the  temper  of  the  mind  which  it  inhabits,  a  passion,  a  persuasion,  an 
excuse,  a  refuge  :  never  a  check.  Cenci  himself  built  a  chapel  in  the 
court  of  his  palace,  and  dedicated  it  to  St.  Thomas  the  apostle,  and 
established  masses  for  the  peace  of  his  soul.  Thus  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  fourth  act,  Lucrelia's  design  in  exposing  herself  to  the  conse- 
quences of  an  expostulation  witli  Cenci  after  having  administered  the 
opiate,  was  to  induce  him  by  a  feigned  tale  to  confess  himself  before 
death  —  this  being  esteemed  by  catholics  as  essential  to  salvation  ;  and 
she  only  relinquishes  her  purpose  when  she  perceives  that  her  perse- 
verance would  expose  Beatrice  to  new  outrages. 

I  have  avoided  with  great  care  in  writing  this  play  the  introduction 
of  what  is  commonly  called  mere  poetry,  and  I  imagine  there  will 
scarcely  be  found  a  detached  simile  or  a  single  isolated  description, 
unless  Beatrice's  description  of  the  chasm  appointed  for  her  father's 
murder  should  be  judged  to  be  of  that  nature.* 

In  a  dramatic  composition  the  imagery  and  the  passion  should  inter- 
penetrate one  another,  the  former  bemg  reserved  simply  for  the  full 
development  and  illustration  of  the  latter.  Imagination  is  as  the  im- 
mortal God  which  should  assume  flesh  for  the  redemption  of  mortal 
passion.  It  is  thus  that  the  most  remote  and  the  most  familiar  im- 
agery may  alike  be  fit  for  dramatic  purposes  when  employed  in  the 
illustration  of  strong  feeling,  which  raises  what  is  low,  and  levels  to 
the  apprehension  that  which  is  lofty,  casting  over  all  the  shadow  of  its 
own  greatness.  In  other  respects  I  have  written  more  carelessly  ; 
that  is,  without  an  over-fastidious  and  learned  choice  of  words.  In 
this  respect  I  entirely  agree  with  those  modern  critics  who  assert  that 
in  order  to  move  men  to  true  sympathy  we  must  use  the  familiar  lan- 
guage of  men  ;  and  that  our  great  ancestors,  the  ancient  English 
poets,  are  the  writers  a  study  of  whom  might  incite  us  to  do  that  for 
our  own  age  which  they  have  done  for  theirs.  But  it  must  be  the  real 
language  of  men  in  general,  and  not  that  of  any  particular  class  to 
whose  society  the  writer  happens  to  belong.  So  much  for  what  I  have 
attempted  :  1  need  not  be  assured  that  success  is  a  very  diflTerent  mat- 
ter ;  particularly  for  one  whose  attention  has  been  but  newly  awakened 
to  the  study  of  dramatic  literature. 

I  endeavored  while  at  Rome  to  observe  such  monuments  of  this 
story  as  might  be  accessible  to  a  stranger.  The  portrait  of  Beatrice 
at  the  Colonna  palace  is  most  admirable  as  a  work  of  art ;  it  was  taken 
by  Guido  during  her  confinement  in  prison.     But  it  is  most  intprcsting 

«  a  just  representation  of  one  of  the  loveliest  specimens  of  the  work- 
anship  of  Nature.  There  is  a  fixed  and  pale  composure  upon  the 
atures  ;  she  seems  sad  and  stricken  down  in  spirit,  yet  the  despair 
thus  expressed  is  lightened  by  the  patience  of  gentleness.  Her  head 
is  bound  with  folds  of  white  drapery,  from  which  the  yellow  strings 
of  her  golden  hair  escape  and  fall  about  her  neck.  The  moulding  of 
her  face  is  exquisitely  delicate  ;  the  eyebrows  are  distinct  and  arclied  ; 
the  lips  have  that  permanent  meaning  of  imagination  and  sensibility 


I 


An  idea  in  this  speech  was  suggested  by  a  most  sublime  passage  in  '  El  PurgaU>rio 
de  San  Patricio'  of  Calderon — the  only  plagiarism  which  I  have  intentionally  committed 
in  Uio  whole  piece. 


316  PREFACE. 

which  suflfering  has  not  repressed,  and  which  it  seems  as  if  death 
scarcely  could  extinguish.  Her  forehead  is  large  and  clear  ;  her  eyes, 
which  we  are  told  were  remarkable  for  their  vivacity,  are  swollen  with 
weeping  and  lustreless,  but  beautifully  tender  and  serene.  In  the 
whole  mien  there  is  a  simplicity  and  dignity,  wliicli,  united  with  her 
exquisite  loveliness  and  deep  sorrow,  are  inexpressibly  pathetic. 
Beatrice  Cenci  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those  rare  persons  in 
whom  energy  and  gentleness  dwell  together  without  destroying  one 
another  ;  her  nature  was  simple  and  profound.  The  crimes  and  mise- 
ries in  which  she  was  an  actor  and  a  sufferer,  are  as  the  mask  and  the 
mantle  in  which  circumstances  clothed  her  for  her  impersonation  on 
the  scene  of  the  world. 

The  Cenci  palace  is  of  great  extent ;  and  though  in  part  modernized, 
there  yet  remains  a  vast  and  gloomy  pile  of  feudal  architecture  in 
the  same  state  as  during  the  dreadful  scenes  which  are  the  subject  of 
this  tragedy.  The  palace  is  situated  in  an  obscure  corner  of  Rome, 
near  the  quarter  of  the  Jews,  and  from  the  upper  windows  you  see 
the  immense  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine  half  hidden  under  their  profuse 
overgrowth  of  trees.  There  is  a  court  in  one  part  of  the  palace 
(perhaps  that  in  which  Cenci  built  the  chapel  to  St.  Thomas),  sup- 
ported by  granite  columns  and  adorned  with  antique  friezes  of  fine 
workmanship,  and  built  up,  according  to  the  ancient  Italian  fashion, 
with  balcony  over  balcony  of  open  work.  One  of  the  gates  of  the 
palace,  formed  of  immense  stones,  and  leading  through  a  passage  dark 
and  lofty,  and  opening  into  gloomy  subterranean  chambers,  struck  me 
particularly. 

Of  the  castle  of  Petreila,  I  could  obtain  no  further  information  than 
that  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  manuscript. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


his  Sons. 


Count  Francesco  Cenci 

GlACOMO, 

Bernardo, 
Cardinal  Camillo. 

Andrea, 


Orsino,  a  Prelate. 
Savella,  the  Papers  Legate, 
Olimpio, 
Marzio. 
Servant  to  Cenci. 


Assassins. 


Nobles,  Judges,  Guards,  Servants. 
LucRETiA,  Wife  of  Cenci,  and  Step-mother  of  his  Children. 
Beatrice,  his  Daughter. 


The  Scene  lies  principally  in  Rome,  but  changes  during  the  Fourth  Ad  to 

Petrella,  a  Castle  among  the  Apulian  Apennines. 

Time.  —  During  the  Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII. 


I 


THE   CENCI 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I. 
An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  COUNT  CENCI  and  CARDINAL  CAMILLO. 
CAMILLO. 

That  matter  of  the  murder  is  hushed  up 

If  you  consent  to  yield  his  ^joliness 

Your  fief  that  lies  beyond  the  Pincian  gate. — 

It  needed  all  my  interest  in  the  conclave 

To  bend  him  to  this  point :  he  said  that  you 

Bought  perilous  impunity  with  your  gold  ; 

That  crimes  like  yours  if  once  or  twice  compounded 

Enriched  the  church,  and  respited  from  hell 

An  erring  soul  which  might  repent  and  live  : 

But  that  the  glory  and  the  interest 

Of  the  high  throne  he  fills  little  consist 

"With  making  it  a  daily  mart  of  guilt 

So  manifold  and  hideous  as  the  deeds 

Which  you  scarce  hide  from  men's  revolted  eyes. 

CENCI. 

The  third  of  my  possessions — let  it  go  ! 
Ay,  I  once  heard  the  nephew  of  the  pope 
Had  sent  his  architect  to  view  the  ground, 
Meaning  to  build  a  villa  on  my  vines 
The  next  time  I  compounded  with  his  uncle  : 
I  little  thought  he  should  outwit  me  so ! 
Henceforth  no  witness — not  the  lamp  —  shall  see 
That  which  the  vassal  threatened  to  divulge, 
Whose  throat  is  choked  with  dust  for  his  reward. 
The  deed  he  saw  could  not  have  rated  higher 
Thau  his  most  worthless  life  :  it  angers  me  ! 


320  THE    CExNTCI. 

Respited  from  hell !  —  So  may  the  devil 

Respite  their  souls  from  heaven.     No  doubt  Pope  Clement 

And  his  most  charitable  nephews  pray 

That  the  apostle  Peter  and  the  saints 

Will  grant  for  their  sake  that  I  long  enjoy 

Strength,  wealth  and  pride  and  lust,  and  length  of  days 

"Wherein  to  act  the  deeds  which  are  the  stewards 

Of  their  revenue.  —  But  much  yet  i-emains 

To  w^hich  they  show^  no  title. 

CA.M1LLO. 

Oh,  Count  Ceuci ! 
So  much  that  thou  might'st  honorably  live. 
And  reconcile  thyself  with  thine  own  heart 
And  with  thy  God  and  with  the  offended  vs'orld. 
How  hideously  look  deeds  of  lust  and  blood 
Through  those  snow-white  and  venerable  hairs  ! 
Your  children  should  be  sitting  round  you  now, 
But  that  you  fear  to  read  upon  their  looks 
The  shame  and  misery  you  have  written  there. 
Where  is  your  wife  ?    Where  is  your  gentle  daughter  ? 
Methinks  her  sweet  looks,  which  make  all  things  else 
Beauteous  and  glad,  might  kill  the  fiend  within  you. 
Why  is  she  barred  from  all  society 
But  her  own  strange  and  uncomplaining  wrongsl 
Talk  with  me,  Count — you  know  I  mean  you  well. 
1  stood  beside  your  dark  and  fiery  youth 
Watching  its  bold  and  bad  career,  as  men 
Watch  meteors,  but  it  vanished  not ;  I  marked 
Your  desperate  and  remorseless  manhood  ;  now 
Do  I  behold  you,  in  dishonored  age. 
Charged  with  a  thousand  unrepented  crimes  — 
Yet  I  have  ever  hoped  you  would  amend, 
And  in  that  hope  have  saved  your  life  three  times. 

CENCI. 

For  which  Aldobrandino  owes  you  now 
My  fief  beyond  the  Pincian  —  Cardinal. 
One  thing,  I  pray  you,  recollect  henceforth, 
And  so  we  shall  converse  with  less  restraint : 
A  man  you  knew  spoke  of  my  wife  and  daughter, 
He  was  accustomed  to  frequent  my  house  ; 
So  the  next  day  /w's  wife  and  daughter  came 
And  asked  if  1  had  seen  him  ;  and  I  smiled  : 
I  think  they  never  saw  him  any  more. 

CAMILLO. 

Thou  execrable  man,  beware  !  — 

CENCl. 

Of  thee  ? 
Nay,  this  is  idle  :  we  should  know  each  other. 
As  to  my  character  for  what  men  call  crime, 
Seeing  I  please  my  senses  as  I  list. 
And  vindicate  that  right  with  force  or  guile, 


THE    CENCI.  321 

It  is  a  public  matter,  and  I  care  not 

If  I  discuss  it  with  you.     I  may  speak 

Alike  to  you  and  my  own  conscious  heart; 

For  you  give  out  that  you  have  half  reformed  me, 

Therefore  strong  vanity  will  keep  you  silent 

If  fear  should  not :  both  will,  I  do  not  doubt. 

All  men  delight  in  sensual  luxury, 

All  men  enjoy  revenge  ;  and  most  exult 

Over  the  tortures  they  can  never  feel  — 

Flattering  their  secret  peace  with  others'  pain. 

But  I  delight  in  nothing  else.     I  love 

The  sight  of  agony,  and  the  sense  of  joy, 

When  this  shall  be  another's,  and  that  mine. 

And  I  have  no  remorse  and  little  fear. 

Which  are,  I  think,  the  checks  of  other  men. 

This  mood  has  giown  upon  me,  until  now 

Any  design  my  captious  fancy  makes 

The  picture  of  its  wish  —  and  it  forms  none 

But  such  as  men  like  you  would  start  to  know  — 

Is  as  my  natural  food  and  rest  debarred 

Until  it  be  accomplished. 


CAMILLO. 

Art  thou  not 


Most  miserable 


Why  miserable  ?  — 
No.     I  am  what  your  theologians  call 
Hardened  ;  which  they  must  be  in  impudence, 
So  to  revile  a  man's  peculiar  taste. 
True,  I  was  happier  than  I  am  while  yet 
Manhood  remained  to  act  the  thing  1  thought ; 
While  lust  was  sweeter  than  revenge ;  and  now 
Invention  palls.     Ay,  we  must  all  grow  old  : 
But  that  there  yet  remains  a  deed  to  act 
Whose  honor  might  make  sharp  an  appetite 
Duller  than  mine  —  I'd  do —  I  know  not  what. 
When  I  was  young  I  thought  of  nothing  else 
But  plea.sure  ;  and  I  fed  on  honey  sweets : 
Men,  by  St.  Thomas  !  can  not  live  like  bees. 
And  I  grew  tired :  yet,  till  I  killed  a  foe, 
And  heard  his  groans  and  heard  his  children's  groans, 
Knew  I  not  what  delight  was  else  on  earth. 
Which  now  delights  me  little.     I  the  rather 
Look  on  such  pangs  as  terror  ill  conceals  : 
The  dry,  fixed  eyeball ;  the  pale,  quivering  lip, 
Which  tell  me  that  the  spirit  weeps  within 
Tears  bitterer  than  the  bloody  sweat  of  Chri.st. 
I  rarely  kill  the  body,  which  preserves, 
Like  a  strong  pri.son,  the  .soul  within  my  power, 
Wherein  I  feed  it  with  the  breath  of  fear 
For  hourly  pain  ! 

21 


322  THE    CENCI. 

CAMILLO. 

Hell's  most  abandoned  fiend 
Did  never,  in  the  drunkenness  of  guilt, 
Speak  to  his  heart  as  now  you  speak  to  me ; 
I  thank  my  God  that  I  believe  you  not. 

Enter  ANDRKA. 
ANDREA. 

My  lord,  a  gentleman  from  Salamanca 
Would  speak  with  you. 

CENCI. 

Bid  him  attend  me  in  the  giand  saloon.         [E.xit  Andrea. 

CAMILLO. 

Farewell :  and  I  will  pray 

Almighty  God  that  thy  false,  impious  words 

Tempt  not  his  spirit  to  abandon  thee.  [Exit  Camillo. 

CENCI. 

The  third  of  my  possessions  !    I  must  use 

Close  husbandry,  or  gold,  the  old  man's  sword.y 

Falls  from  my  withered  hand.     But  yesterday 

There  came  an  order  from  the  pope  to  make 

Fourfold  provision  for  my  cunsed  sons. 

Whom  I  have  sent  from  Rome  to  Salamanca, 

Hoping  some  accident  might  cut  them  off; 

And  meaning,  if  I  could,  to  starve  them  there. 

I  pray  thee,  God,  send  some  quick  death  upon  them ! 

Bernardo  and  my  wife  could  not  be  worse 

If  dead  and  damned  :  then,  as  to  Beatrice  — 

[Looking-  around,  Mm.  suspiciously. 
I  think  they  can  not  hear  me  at  that  door  ; 
What  if  they  should  ?     And  yet  I  need  not  speak. 
Though  the  heart  triumphs  vv^ith  itself  in  words, 
O,  thou  most  silent  air,  that  shall  not  hear 
What  now  I  think  I    'Thou  pavement,  which  I  tread 
Toward  her  chamber  —  let  your  echoes  talk 
Of  my  imperious  step,  scorning  surprise, 
But  not  of  my  intent !  —  Andrea  ! 

Enter  ANDREA. 
ANDREA. 

My  lord  ! 

CENCI. 

Bid  Beatrice  attend  me  in  her  chamber 

This  evening  —  no,  at  midnight,  and  alone.  [Exeunt. 


THE    CENCI.  323 

SCENE  II. 
A  Garden  of  iJie  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  BEATRICE  and  ORSINO,  as  in  conversation. 
BEATRICE. 

Pervert  not  truth, 

Orsino.     Yoa  remember  where  we  held 

That  conversation  —  nay,  we  see  the  spot  ^ 

Even  from  this  cypress  ;  two  long  years  are  past 

Since,  on  an  April  midnii?ht,  underneath 

The  moonlight  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine, 

I  did  confess  to  you  my  secret  mind. 

ORSINO. 

You  said  you  loved  me  then. 

BEATRICE. 

You  are  a  priest  : 
Speak  to  me  not  of  love. 

ORSINO. 

1  may  obtain 
The  dispensation  of  the  pope  to  marry. 
Because  1  am  a  priest,  do  you  believe 
Your  image,  as  the  hunter  some  struck  deer, 
Follows  me  not  whether  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

BEATRICE. 

As  I  have  said,  speak  to  me  not  of  love  ; 

Had  you  a  dispensation,  I  have  not ; 

Nor  will  I  leave  this  home  of  misery 

While  my  poor  Bernard,  and  that  gentle  lady     ■ 

To  whom  I  owe  life  and  these  virtuous  thoughts, 

Must  suffer  what  I  still  have  strength  to  share. 

Alas,  Orsino  !  All  the  love  that  once 

I  felt  for  you  is  turned  to  bitter  pain. 

Ours  was  a  youthful  contract,  which  you  first 

Broke,  by  assuming  vows  no  pope  will  lose. 

And  thus  I  love  you  still,  but  holily, 

Even  as  a  sister  or  a  spirit  might; 

And  so  I  swear  a  cold  fidelity. 

And  it  is  well  perhaps  we  shall  not  marry. 

You  have  a  sly,  equivocating  vein 

That  suits  me  not.     Ah,  wretched  that  I  am ! 

Where  shall  I  turn  ?     B^ven  now  you  look  on  me 

As  you  were  not  my  friend,  and  as  if  you 

Discovered  that  I  thought  so,  with  false  smiles 

Making  my  true  suspicion  seem  your  wrong. 

Ah  !  no,  forgive  me  ;  sorrow  makes  me  seem 

Sterner  than  else  my  nature  might  have  been  ; 

I  have  a  weight  of  melancholy  thoughts. 

And  they  forbode  —  but  w^hat  can  they  forbode 

Worse  than  I  now  endure  ? 


324  THE    CENCI. 


All  will  be  well. 
Is  the  petition  yet  prepared  ?     You  know 
My  zeal  for  all  you  wish,  sweet  Beatrice  ; 
Doubt  not  but  I  will  use  my  utmost  skill 
So  that  the  pope  attend  to  your  complaint. 

BEATRICE. 

^      Your  zeal  for  all  I  wish  ?  —  Ah  me,  you  are  cold  ! 

,▼,    Your  utmost  skill  —  speak  but  one  word  — 

•   '  {Aside.)  Alas! 

Weak  and  deserted  creature  that  1  am. 

Here  I  stand  bickering  with  my  only  friend  ! 
{To  Ors\ NO.) 

This  night  my  father  gives  a  sumptuous  feast, 

Orsino  ;  he  has  heard  some  happy  news 

From  Salamanca,  from  my  brothers  there, 

And  with  this  outward  show  of  love  he  mocks 

His  inward  hate.     'Tis  bold  hypocrisy, 

For  he  would  gladlier  celebrate  their  deaths, 

"Which  I  have  heard  him  pray  for  on  his  knees  : 

Great  God  !  that  such  a  father  should  be  mine  !  — 

But  there  is  mighty  preparation  made, 

And  all  our  kin,  the  Ceuci,  will  be  there, 

And  all  the  chief  nobility  of  Rome. 

And  he  has  bidden  me  and  my  pale  mother 

Attire  ourselves  in  festival  array. 

Poor  lady  !  She  expects  some  happy  change 

In  his  dark  spirit  from  this  act ;   I  none. 

At  supper  I  will  give  you  the  petition  : 

Till  when  —  farewell. 

ORSINO. 

Farewell.  [JEJa:?^  Beatrice. 

I  know^  the  pope 
Will  ne'er  absolve  me  from  my  priestly  vow 
But  by  absolving  me  from  the  revenue 
Of  many  a  wealthy  see  ;  and,  Beatrice, 
I  think  to  win  thee  at  an  easier  rate. 
Nor  shall  he  read  her  eloquent  petition : 
He  might  bestow  her  on  some  poor  relation 
Of  his  sixth  cousin,  as  he  did  her  sister. 
And  I  should  be  debarred  from  all  access. 
Then  as  to  what  she  suffers  from  her  father, 
In  all  this  there  is  much  exaggeration  ; 
Old  men  are  testy  and  will  have  their  way  ; 
A  man  may  stab  his  enemy  or  bis  vassal, 
And  live  a  free  life  as  to  wine  or  women, 
And  with  a  peevish  temper  may  return 
To  a  dull  home,  and  rate  his  wife  and  children  : 
Daughters  and  wives  call  this  foul  tyranny. 
I  shall  be  well  content  if  on  my  conscience 
There  rest  no  heavier  sin  than  what  they  suffer 
From  the  devices  of  my  love  —  a  net 


THE    CENCI. 


325 


From  which  she  shall  escape  not.     Yet  I  fear 

Her  subtle  mind,  her  awe-inspiring  gaze, 

Whose  beams  anatomize  me,  nerve  by  nerve, 

And  lay  me  bai'e,  and  make  me  blush  to  see 

My  hidden  thoughts.     Ah,  no  !  a  friendle.ss  girl 

Who  clings  to  me,  as  to  her  only  hope : 

L  were  a  fool,  not  less  than  if  a  panther 

Were  panic-stricken  by  the  antelope's  eye, 

If  she  escape  me.  [ExU. 


SCENE  Ilf. 
A  magnificent  Hall  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Banquet.  — Etuer  CENCI,  LUCRETIA,  BEATRICE,  ORSINO.  CAMILLO, 
NOBLES. 

CENCI. 

Welcome,  my  friends  and  kinsmen  ;  welcome  ye, 
Princes  and  cardinals,  pillars  of  the  church, 
Who.se  presence  honors  our  festivity. 
I  have  too  long  lived  like  an  anchorite, 
And,  in  my  absence  from  your  merry  meetings. 
An  evil  word  is  gone  abroad  of  me  ; 
But  I  do  hope  that  you,  my  noble  friends, 
When  you  have  shared  the  entertainment  here, 
And  heard  the  pious  cause  for  which  'tis  given. 
And  we  have  pledged  a  health  or  two  together. 
Will  think  me  flesh  and  blood  as  well  as  you ; 
Sinful  indeed,  for  Adam  made  all  so. 
But  tender- hearted,  meek  and  pitiful. 

FIRST    GUEST. 

In  truth,  my  lord,  you  seem  too  light  of  heart. 
Too  sprightly  and  companionable  a  man, 
To  act  the  deeds  that  rumor  pins  on  you. 

[  To  hia  companion. 
I  never  saw  such  blithe  and  open  cheer 
In  any  eye  ! 

SECOND    GUEST. 

Some  most  desired  event. 
In  which  we  all  demand  a  common  joy. 
Has  brought  us  hither ;  let  us  hear  it.  Count. 

CENCI. 

It  is  indeed  a  most  de.sired  event. 
If,  w^hen  a  parent,  from  a  parent's  heart. 
Lifts  from  this  earth  to  the  great  Father  of  all 
A  prayer,  both  when  he  \\iy»  him  down  to  sleep 
And  when  he  ri.ses  up  from  dreaming  it ; 
One  supplication,  one  desire,  one  hope, 
That  he  would  grant  a  \visli  for  his  tv^'o  sons, 
Even  all  that  lie  denninds  in  their  regard  — 


326  THE    CENCI. 

And  suddenly,  beyond  his  dearest  hope, 
It  is  accomplished,  he  should  then  rejoice, 
And  call  his  friends  and  kinsmen  to  a  feast, 
And  task  their  love  to  grace  his  merriment, 
Then  honor  me  thus  far  —  for  I  am  he. 

BEATRICE    (to  LUCRETIA). 

Great  God  !  how  horrible  !  some  dreadful  ill 
Must  have  befallen  my  brothers. 

*  LUCRETIA. 

Fear  not,  child, 
He  speaks  too  frankly. 

BEATRICE. 

Ah !  My  blood  runs  cold, 
I  fear  that  w^icked  laughter  round  his  eye, 
Which  v^rinkles  up  the  skin  even  to  the  hair. 

CENCl. 

Here  are  the  letters  brought  from  Salamanca ; 

Beatrice,  read  them  to  your  mother.     God, 

I  thank  thee  !     In  one  night  didst  thou  perform, 

By  w^ays  inscrutable,  the  thing  I  sought. 

My  disobedient  and  rebellious  sous 

Are  dead  !  —  W-^hy  dead  !  —  What  means  this  change  of  cheer  ? 

You  hear  me  not,  I  tell  you  they  are  dead  ; 

And  they  will  need  no  food  or  raiment  more  : 

The  tapers  that  did  light  them  the  dark  way 

Are  their  last  co.st.     The  Pope,  1  think,  will  not 

Expect  I  should  maintain  them  in  their  coffins. 

Rejoice  with  me  —  my  heart  is  wondrous  glad. 

BEATRICE.     {LvcKETiA  sinks,  Jwlf  fainting' ;  Beatrice 

supports  tier.) 
It  is  not  true !     Dear  lady,  pray  look  up. 
Had  it  been  true,  there  is  a  God  in  heaven, 
He  would  not  live  to  boast  of  such  a  boon. 
Unnatural  man,  thou  knowest  that  it  is  false. 

CENCI. 

Ay,  as  the  word  of  God ;  whom  here  I  call 

To  witness  that  I  speak  the  sober  truth  ; 

And  whose  most  favoring  providence  was  show^n 

Even  in  the  manner  of  their  deaths.     For  Rocco 

Was  kneeling  at  the  mass,  with  sixteen  others. 

When  the  church  fell  and  crushed  him  to  a  mummy, 

The  rest  escaped  unhurt.     Cristofano 

Was  stabbed  in  error  by  a  jealous  man, 

While  she  he  loved  was  sleeping  with  his  rival ; 

All  in  the  self-same  hour  of  the  same  night ; 

Which  shows  that  heaven  has  special  care  of  me. 

I  beg  those  friends  who  love  me,  that  they  mark 

The  day  a  feast  upon  their  calendars. 

It  was  the  twenty-seventh  of  December  : 

Ay,  read  the  letters  if  you  doubt  my  oath. 

[  The  asiemhly  appears  confused ;  several  of  the  guests  nse. 


TliK    CENCI.  327 

FIRST    GUEST. 

Ob.  horrible!  I  will  depart. 

SECOND    GUEST. 

And  I. 

THIRD   GUEST. 

No,  Stay ! 
I  do  believe  it  is  some  jest,  though  faith 
'Tis  mocking  us  somewhat  too  solemnly. 
I  think  his  son  has  married  the  Infanta, 
Or  found  a  mine  of  gold  in  El  Dorado  : 
'Tis  but  to  season  some  such  news;  stay,  stay  ! 
1  see  'tis  only  raillery  by  his  smile. 

CENCI  {Jjlling-  a  bowl  of  wine,  and  lifting  it  up). 
Oh,  thon  bright  wine,  whose  purple  splendor  leaps 
And  bubbles  gayly  in  this  golden  bowl 
Under  the  lamp-light,  as  my  spirits  do. 
To  hear  the  death  of  my  accursed  sons ! 
Could  I  believe  thou  wert  their  mingled  blood, 
Then  would  I  taste  thee  like  a  sacrament. 
And  pledge  with  thee  the  mighty  Devil  in  hell ; 
Who,  if  a  father's  curses,  as  men  say, 
Climb  with  swift  wings  after  their  children's  souls, 
And  drag  them  from  the  very  throne  of  heaven, 
Now  triumphs  in  my  triumph  !  —  But  thou  art 
Superfluous ;  I  have  drunken  deep  of  joy. 
And  I  will  taste  no  other  wine  to-night. 
Here,  Andrea  !     Bear  the  bowl  around. 
A  GUEST  [rising). 

Thou  wretch ! 
Will  none  among  this  noble  company 
Check  the  abandoned  villain  ? 

CAMILLO. 

For  God's  sake. 
Let  me  dismiss  the  guests !     You  are  insane. 
Some  ill  will  come  of  this. 

SECOND   GUEST. 

Seize,  silence  him ! 

FIRST   GUEST. 

I  will ! 

THIRD   GUEST. 

And  I! 
CENCI  [addressing  those  who  rise  with  a  threatening  gesture). 
Who  moves  ?     Who  speaks  ? 

[  Turning  to  the  company. 
'Tis  nothing. 
Enjoy  yourselves.     Beware  !  for  my  revenge 
Is  as  the  sealed  commission  of  a  king, 
That  kills,  and  none  dare  name  the  murderer. 
[The  banquet  is  broken  up ;  several  of  the  guests  are  departing. 


328  THE    CENCT. 

BEATRICE. 

I  do  entreat  you,  go  not,  noble  guests  ; 

What  although  tyranny  and  impious  hate 

Stand  sheltered  by  a  father's  hoary  hair  ? 

What  if  'tis  he  who  clothed  these  limbs 

Who  tortures  them,  and  triumphs  ?     What,  if  we, 

The  desolate  and  the  dead,  were  his  own  flesh, 

His  children  and  his  wife,  whom  he  is  bound 

To  love  and  shelter  ?     Shall  we  therefore  find 

No  refuge  in  this  merciless  wide  world  ? 

Oh,  think  what  deep  wrongs  must  have  blotted  out 

First  love,  then  reverence  in  a  child's  prone  mind. 

Till  it  thus  vanquish  shame  and  fear !     Oh,  think  ! 

I  have  borne  much,  and  kissed  the  sacred  hand 

Which  crushed  us  to  the  earth,  and  thought  its  stroke 

Was  perhaps  some  paternal  cliastisement ! 

Have  excused  much,  doubted  ;  and  when  no  doubt 

Remained,  have  sought  by  patience,  love  and  tears, 

To  soften  him  ;  and  when  this  could  not  be, 

I  have  knelt  down  through  the  long  sleepless  nights. 

And  lifted  up  to  God,  the  father  of  all, 

Passionate  prayers  :  and  when  these  were  not  heard. 

I  have  still  borne  :  until  I  meet  you  here. 

Princes  and  kinsmen,  at  this  hideous  feast 

Given  at  my  brothers'  deaihs.//  Two  yet  remain. 

His  wife  remains  and  I,  whom,  if  ye  save  not, 

Ye  may  soon  share  such  merriment  again 

As  fathers  make  over  their  children's  graves  ; 

Oh  !  Prince  Colonna,  thou  art  our  near  kinsman  ; 

Cardinal,  thou  art  the  pope's  chamberlain ; 

Camillo,  thou  art  chief  justiciary  : 

Take  us  away ! 

CENCi.     {He  has  been  conversing-  with  Camillo  during 

the  first  part  of  Beatrice's  speech  :  lie  hears  the 

conclusion,  and  now  advances.) 

I  hope  my  good  friends  here 
Will  think  of  their  own  daughters  —  or  perhaps 
Of  their  own  throats  —  before  they  lend  an  ear 
To  this  wild  girl. 

BEATRICE  {iiot  noticing  the  tvords  of  Cenci). 
Dare  no  one  look  on  me  ? 
None  answer  ?     Can  one  tyrant  overbear 
The  sense  of  many  best  and  wisest  men 
Or  is  it  that  I  sue  not  in  some  form 
Of  scrupulous  law,  that  ye  deny  my  suit? 
Oh,  God  !  that  I  were  buried  with  my  brothers  ! 
And  that  the  flowers  of  this  departed  spring 
Were  fading  on  my  grave  !  And  that  my  father 
Were  celebrating  now  one  feast  for  all ! 

CAMILLO. 

A  bitter  wish  for  one  so  young  and  gentle  : 
Can  we  do  nothing  ?  — 


THE    CENCI.  329 

COLONNA. 

Nothing  that  I  see. 
Count  Cenci  were  a  dangerous  enemy  : 
Yet  1  would  second  any  one. 

A    CARDINAL. 

And  I. 

CENCI. 

Retire  to  your  chamber,  insolent  girl ! 

BEATRICE. 

Retire  thou,  impious  man  !    Ay,  hide  thyself 

Where  never  eye  can  look  upon  thee  more  ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  honor  and  obedience 

Who  art  a  torturer  ?     Father,  never  dream, 

Though  thou  may'st  overbear  this  company, 

But  ill  must  come  of  ill.     Frown  not  on  me  ! 

Haste,  hide  thyself,  lest  with  avenging  looks 

My  brothers'  ghosts  should  hunt  thee  from  thy  seat ! 

Cover  thy  face  from  every  living  eye, 

And  start  if  thou  but  hear  a  human  step  : 

Seek  out  some  dark  and  silent  corner,  there. 

Bow  thy  white  head  before  offended  God, 

And  we  will  kneel  around  and  fervently 

Pray  that  he  pity  both  ourselves  and  thee. 

CENCI. 

My  friends,  I  do  lament  this  insane  girl 

Has  spoilt  the  mirth  of  our  festivity. 

Good-night,  farewell  ;  I  will  not  make  you  longer 

Spectators  of  our  dull  domestic  quarrels. 

Another  time. —       [Exeunt  all  but  Cenci  and  Beatrice. 

My  brain  is  swimming  round  ; 
Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine  ! 

{To  Beatrice)     Thou  painted  viper ! 
Beast  that  thou  art !    Fair  and  yet  terrible  ! 
I  know  a  charm  shall  make  thee  meek  and  tame  — 
Now  get  thee  from  my  sight !  [Exit  Beatrice. 

Plere,  Andrea, 
Fill  up  this  goblet  with  Greek  wine.     I  said 
I  would  not  drink  this  evening,  but  I  must ; 
For,  strange  to  say,  I  feel  my  spirits  fail 
With  thinking  what  I  have  decreed  to  do. 

[Drinking  the  wine. 
Be  thou  the  resolution  of  quick  youth 
Within  my  veins,  and  manhood's  purpose  stem, 
And  age's  firm,  cold,  subtle  villainy  ; 
As  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  children's  blood 
Which  I  did  thirst  to  drink.     The  charm  works  well ; 
It  must  be  done,  it  shall  be  done,  I  swear !  [Exit. 


END    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT. 


330  THE    CENCI. 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I. 
An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  LUCRETIA  and  BERNARDO. 
LUCRETIA. 

Weep  not,  my  gentle  boy ;  he  struck  but  me, 
Who  have  borne  deeper  wrongs.     In  truth,  if  he 
Had  killed  me.  he  had  done  a  kinder  deed. 
Oh,  God  Almighty,  do  thou  look  upon  us  — 
We  have  no  other  friend  but  only  thee  ! 
Yet  weep  not ;  though  1  love  you  as  my  own, 
I  am  not  your  true  mother. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh.  more,  more 
Than  ever  mother  was  to  any  child, 
That  have  you  been  to  me  !     Had  he  not  been 
My  father,  do  you  think  that  1  should  weep  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas  !  poor  boy,  w^hat  else  couldst  thou  have  done  1 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

BEATRICE  {in  a  hurried  voice). 
Did  he  pass  this  way  ?     Have  you  seen  him,  brother  ? 
Ah  !  no,  that  is  his  step  upon  the  stairs ; 
'Tis  nearer  now  ;  his  hand  is  on  the  door ; 
Mother,  if  1  to  thee  have  ever  been 
A  duteous  child,  now  save  me  !     Thou,  great  God, 
Whose  image  upon  earth  a  father  is. 
Dost  thou  indeed  abandon  me  ?     He  comes : 
The  door  is  opening  now  ;  I  see  his  face  ; 
He  frowns  on  others,  but  he  smiles  on  me, 
Even  as  he  did  after  the  feast  last  night. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Almighty  God,  how  merciful  thou  art ! 

'Tis  but  Orsino's  servant.  —  Well,  what  news? 

SERVANT. 

My  master  bids  me  say,  the  Holy  Father 
Has  sent  back  your  petition  thus  unopened. 

[Giving  a  paper. 
And  he  demands  at  what  hour  'twere  secure 
To  visit  you  again  ? 

LUCRETIA, 

At  the  Ave  Mary.  \E.tit  Servo  n!. 

So,  daughter,  our  last  hope  has  failed  !     Ah  me  ! 
How  pale  you  look  !  you  tremble,  and  you  stand 


THE    CENCI.  331 

Wrapped  in  some  fixed  and  fearful  meditation, 
As  if  one  thought  were  over  strong  for  you  : 
Your  eyes  have  a  chill  glare  ;  oh,  dearest  child  ! 
Are  you  gone  mad  ?     If  not,  pray  speak  to  me. 

BEATRICE. 

You  see  I  am  not  mad  :  I  speak  to  you. 

LUCRETIA. 

You  talked  of  something  that  your  father  did 

After  that  dreadful  feast  ?    Could  it  be  worse 

Than  w^hen  he  smiled  and  cried,  '  My  sons  are  dead  !' 

And  every  one  looked  in  his  neighbor's  face 

To  see  if  others  were  as  white  as  he  ? 

At  the  first  word  he  spoke  I  felt  the  blood 

Rush  to  my  heart,  and  fell  into  a  trance ; 

And  when  it  passed  I  sat  all  weak  and  wild  ; 

While  you  alone  stood  up,  and  with  strong  words 

Checked  his  unnatural  pride  :  and  I  could  see 

The  devil  was  rebuked  that  lives  in  him. 

Until  this  hour  thus  you  have  ever  stood 

Between  us  and  your  father's  moody  wrath 

Like  a  protecting  presence  ;  your  firm  mind 

Has  been  our  only  refuge  and  defence  : 

What  can  have  thus  subdued  it  ?     What  can  now 

Have  given  you  that  cold  melancholy  look. 

Succeeding  to  your  unaccustomed  fear  ? 

BEATRICE. 

What  is  it  that  you  say  ?     1  was  just  thinking 
'Twere  better  not  to  struggle  any  more. 
Men,  like  my  father,  have  been  dark  and  bloody, 
Yet  never —  O  !  before  worse  comes  of  it, 
'Twere  wise  to  die  :  it  ends  in  that  at  last. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh,  talk  not  so,  dear  child  !     Tell  me  at  once 
What  did  your  father  do  or  say  to  you? 
He  stayed  not  after  that  accursed  feast 
One  moment  in  your  chamber.  —  Speak  to  me. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh,  sister,  sister,  prithee,  speak  to  us ! 

BEATRICE  {speaking  very  slowly  with  a  forced  calmness). 

It  was  one  word,  mother,  one  little  word  ; 

One  look,  one  smile.  [Wildly. 

Oh  !  he  has  trampled  me 
Under  his  feet,  and  made  the  blood  sti-eam  down 
My  pallid  cheeks.     And  he  has  given  us  all 
Ditch-water  and  the  fever-stricken  ilesh 
Of  buffaloes,  and  bade  us  eat  or  starve. 
And  we  have  eaten.     He  has  made  me  look 
On  my  beloved  Bernardo  when  the  rust 
Of  heavy  chains  has  gangrened  his  sweet  limbs, 
And  I  have  never  yet  de.spaircd  —  but  now  ! 


332  THE    CEXCI. 

What  would  I  say  ?  [Recovering  herself 

Ah  !  no,  'tis  nothing  ne"w. 
The  sufferings  we  all  share  have  made  tne  v/ild : 
He  only  struck  and  cursed  me  as  he  passed ; 
He  said,  he  looked,  he  did  —  nothing  at  all 
Beyond  his  wont,  yet  it  disordered  me. 
Alas  !  I  am  forgetful  of  my  duty. 
I  should  preserve  my  senses  for  your  sake. 

LUCRETIA. 

Nay,  Beatrice  ;  have  courage,  my  sweet  girl. 

If  any  one  despairs  it  should  be  I, 

Who  loved  him  once,  and  now  must  live  with  him 

Till  God  in  pity  call  for  him  or  me. 

For  you  may,  like  your  sister,  find  some  husband, 

And  smile,  years  hence,  with  children  round  your  knees  ; 

While  1,  then  dead,  and  all  this  hideous  coil, 

Shall  be  remembered  only  as  a  dream. 

BEATRICE. 

Talk  not  to  me,  dear  lady,  of  a  husband. 

Did  you  not  nurse  me  when  my  mother  died  ? 

Did  you  not  shield  me  and  that  dearest  boy  ? 

And  had  we  any  other  friend  but  you 

In  infancy,  with  gentle  words  and  looks. 

To  win  our  father  not  to  murder  us  ? 

And  shall  1  now  desert  you  ?    'May  the  ghost 

Of  my  dead  mother  plead  against  my  soul 

If  I  abandon  her  who  filled  the  place 

She  left,  with  more  even  than  a  mothei-'s  love  ! 

BERNARDO. 

And  I  am  of  my  sister's  mind.     Indeed 
I  would  not  leave  you  in  this  wretchedness. 
Even  though  the  pope  should  make  me  free  to  live 
In  some  blithe  place,  like  others  of  my  age. 
With  sports  and  delicate  food  and  the  fresh  air. 
Oh,  never  think  that  I  will  leave  you,  mother  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

My  dear,  dear  children ! 

E}Uer  CENCI,  suddenly. 
CENCI. 

What !  Beatrice  here  ? 
Come  hither  !  [She  shrinks  back,  and  covers  her  face. 

Nay,  hide  not  your  face,  'tis  fair  : 
Look  up  !     Why,  yesternight  you  dared  to  look 
With  disobedient  insolence  upon  me, 
Bending  a  stern  and  an  inquiring  brow 
On  what  I  meant ;  while  I  then  sought  to  hide 
That  which  I  came  to  tell  you  —  but  in  vain. 

BEATRICE  [wildly,  staggering  toward  the  door). 

Oh,  that  the  earth  would  gape  !     Hide  me,  oh  God  ! 


THE    CENCI.  333 

CENCI. 

Then  it  was  I  whose  inarticulate  words 
Fell  from  my  lips,  w^ho  with  tottering  steps 
Fled  from  your  presence,  as  you  now^  from  mine. 
Stay,  I  command  you  :  from  this  day  and  hour 
Never  again,  I  think,  with  fearless  eye. 
And  brow  superior,  and  unaltered  cheek, 
And  that  lip  made  for  tenderness  or  scorn, 
Shalt  thou  strike  dumb  the  meanest  of  mankind : 
Me  least  of  all.     Now  get  thee  to  thy  chamber ! 
Thou,  too,  loathed  image  of  thy  cursed  mother, 

[To  Bernardo. 
Thy  milky,  meek  face  makes  me  sick  with  hate  ! 

[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Bernardo. 
{Aside.)     So  much  has  passed  between  us  as  must  make 
Me  bold,  her  fearful.  —  'Tis  an  awful  thing 
To  touch  such  mischief  as  I  now  conceive  : 
So  men  sit  shivering  on  the  dewy  bank 
And  try  the  chill  stream  with  their  feet :  once  in  — 
How  the  delighted  spirit  pants  for  joy ! 

LUCRETIA  {advancing  timidli/  toivard  him). 
Oh,  husband  !  Pray  forgive  poor  Beatrice, 
She  meant  not  any  ill. 

CENCI. 

Nor  you,  perhaps  ? 
Nor  that  young  imp,  whom  you  have  taught  by  rote 
Parricide  with  his  alphabet  ?     Nor  Giacomo  ? 
Nor  those  two  most  unnatural  sons,  who  stirred 
Enmity  up  against  me  with  the  pope  ? 
Whom  in  one  night  merciful  God  cut  off: 
Innocent  lambs  !     They  thought  not  any  ill. 
You  were  not  here  conspiring  ?     You  said  nothing 
Of  how  I  might  be  dungeoned  as  a  madman  ; 
Or  be  condemned  to  death  for  some  oftence. 
And  you  would  be  the  witnesses  ?  —  This  failing, 
How  just  it  were  to  hire  assas.sins,  or 
Put  sudden  poison  in  my  evening  drink  1 
Or  smother  me  when  overcome  by  wine  1 
Seeing  we  had  no  other  judge  but  God, 
And  he  had  sentenced  me,  and  there  were  none 
But  you  to  be  the  executioners 
Of  his  decree  enregistered  in  heaven  ? 
Oh,  no !  You  said  not  this  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

So  help  me  God, 
I  never  thought  the  things  you  charge  me  with  ! 

CENCI. 

If  you  dare  speak  that  wicked  lie  again, 
I'll  kill  you  !     What !  it  was  not  by  your  counsel 
That  Beatrice  disturbed  the  feast  last  night  ? 
You  did  not  hope  to  stir  some  enemies 


334  THE    CENCI. 

Against  me,  and  escape,  and  laugh  to  scorn 
What  eveiy  nerve  of  you  now  trembles  at  ? 
You  judged  thai  men  -were  bolder  than  they  are  ; 
Few  dare  to  stand  between  then*  grave  and  me. 

LUCRETIA. 

Look  not  so  dreadfully  !     By  my  salvation 
I  knew  not  aught  that  Beatrice  designed  ; 
Nor  do  1  think  she  designed  anything 
Until  she  heard  you  talk  of  her  dead  brothers. 

CENCI. 

Blaspheming  liar !     You  are  damned  for  this ! 

But  I  will  take  you  where  you  may  persuade 

The  stones  you  tread  on  to  deliver  you  : 

For  men  shall  there  be  none  but  those  v\'ho  dare 

All  things  ;  not  question  that  which  I  command. 

On  Wednesday  next  I  shall  set  out :  you  know 

That  savage  rock,  the  Castle  of  Petrella  ; 

'Tis  safely  walled,  and  moated  round  about: 

Its  dungeons  under  ground,  and  its  thick  towers, 

Never  told  tales  ;  though  they  have  heard  and  seen 

What  might  make  dumb  things  speak.     Why  do  you  linger  ? 

Make  speediest  preparation  for  the  journey  ! 

[Exit  LUCRETIA. 

The  all-beholding,  sun  yet  shines ;  I  hear 

A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets ; 

I  see  the  bright  sky  through  the  window  panes : 

It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day  ; 

Loud,  light,  suspicious,  full  of  eyes  and  ears ; 

And  every  little  corner,  nook  and  hole, 

Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light. 

Come,  darkness  !     Yet,  what  is  the  day  to  me  ? 

And  w^herefore  should  I  wish  for  night,  w^ho  do 

A  deed  which  shall  confound  both  night  and  day  ? 

'Tis  she  shall  grope  through  a  bewildering  mist 

Of  horror :  if  there  be  a  sun  in  heaven. 

She  shall  not  dare  to  look  upon  its  beams, 

Nor  feel  its  warmth.     Let  her  then  wish  for  night ; 

The  act  I  think  shall  soon  extinguish  all 

For  me :  I  bear  a  darker  deadlier  gloom 

Than  the  earth's  shade,  or  interlunar  air, 

Or  constellations  quenched  in  murkiest  cloud, 

In  which  I  walk  secure  and  unbeheld 

Toward  my  purpose.     Would  that  it  were  done  !       [Exit. 


THE    CENCI.  335 


SCENE  II. 
A  Chamber  in  the  Vatican. 

Enter  CAMILLO  and  GIACOMO,  in  conversation. 
CAMILLO. 

There  is  an  obsolete  and  doubtful  law, 
By  which  you  might  obtain  a  bare  provision 
Of  food  and  clothing. 

GIACOMO. 

Nothing  more  ?     Alas ! 
Bare  must  be  the  provision  which  strict  law 
Awards,  and  aged  sullen  avarice  pays. 
"Why  did  my  father  not  apprentice  me 
To  some  mechanic  trade  1     I  should  have  then 
Been  trained  in  no  high-born  necessities 
Which  I  could  meet  not  by  my  daily  toil. 
The  eldest  son  of  a  rich  nobleman 
Is  heir  to  all  his  incapacities  ; 
He  has  wide  wants,  and  nairow  powers.     If  you, 
Cardinal  Camillo,  were  reduced  at  once 
From  thrice-driven  beds  of  down,  and  delicate  food, 
A  hundred  servants,  and  six  palaces. 
To  that  which  nature  doth  indeed  require  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Nay,  there  is  reason  in  your  plea ;  'twere  hard. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis  hard  for  a  firm  man  to  bear :  but  I 
Have  a  dear  wife,  a  lady  of  high  birth. 
Whose  dowry  in  ill  hour  I  lent  my  father, 
Without  a  bond  or  witness  to  the  deed  : 
And  children  who  inherit  her  fine  senses. 
The  fairest  creatures  in  this  breathing  world  ; 
And  she  and  they  reproach  me  not.     Cardinal, 
Do  you  not  think  the  Pope  w^ould  interpose 
And  stretch  authority  beyond  the  law  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Though  your  peculiar  case  is  hard,  I  know 

The  Pope  will  not  divert  the  cour.se  of  law. 

After  that  impious  feast  the  other  night 

I  spoke  with  him,  and  urged  him  then  to  check 

Your  father's  cruel  hand  ;  he  frowned  and  said, 

"  Children  are  disobedient,  and  they  sting 

Their  fathers'  hearts  to  madness  and  despair, 

Requiting  years  of  care  w^ith  contumely. 

I  pity  the  Count  Cenci  from  my  heart ; 

His  outraged  love  perhaps  awakened  hate. 

And  thus  he  is  exasperated  to  ill. 

In  the  great  war  between  the  old  and  young, 

I.  who  have  white  hairs  and  a  tottering  body, 

Will  keep  at  least  blameless  neutrality." 


336  THE    CENCI. 

Enter  ORSINO. 

You,  my  good  lord  Orsino.  heard  those  words. 

ORSINO. 

What  words  ? 

GIACOMO. 

Alas,  repeat  them  not  again  ! 
There  then  is  no  redress  for  me  ;  at  least 
None  but  that  which  I  may  achieve  myself, 
Since  I  am  driven  to  the  bi'iuk.     But,  say, 
My  innocent  sister,  and  my  only  brother 
Are  dying  underneath  my  father's  eye. 
The  memorable  torturers  of  this  land, 
Galeaz  Visconti,  Borgia,  Ezzelin, 
Never  inflicted  on  their  meanest  slave 
What  these  endure  ;  shall  they  have  no  protection  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Why,  if  they  would  petition  to  the  Pope 

I  see  not  hoAv  he  could  refuse  it  —  yet 

He  holds  it  of  most  dangerous  example 

In  aught  to  weaken  the  paternal  power, 

Being,  as  'twere,  the  shadow  of  his  ow^n. 

I  pray  you  now  excuse  me.     I  have  business 

That  will  not  bear  delay.  Exit  camillo. 

GIACOMO. 

But  you,  Orsino, 
Have  the  petition ;  wherefore  not  present  it  ? 


I  have  presented  it,  and  backed  it  with 
My  earnest  prayers,  and  urgent  interest ; 
It  was  returned  unanswered.     I  doubt  not 
But  that  the  strange  and  execrable  deeds 
Alleged  in  it — in  truth  they  might  well  baffle 
Any  belief — have  turned  the  Pope's  displeasure 
Upon  the  accusers  from  the  criminal : 
So  I  should  guess  from  what  Camillo  said. 

GIACOMO. 

My  friend,  that  palace-walking  devil.  Gold, 

Has  whispered  silence  to  his  Holiness  : 

And  we  are  left,  as  scorpions  ringed  with  fire. 

What  should  we  do  but  strike  ourselves  to  death  1 

For  he  who  is  our  murderous  persecutor 

Is  shielded  by  a  father's  holy  name, 

Or  I  would —  [Stops  abruptly. 

ORSINO. 

What  ?     Fear  not  to  speak  your  thought. 
Words  are  but  holy  as  the  deeds  they  cover  : 
A  priest  who  has  forsworn  the  God  he  serves  ; 
A  judge  who  makes  the  truth  weep  at  his  decree ; 
A  mend  who  should  weave  counsel,  as  I  now, 


THE    CENCI.  337 

But  as  the  mantle  of  some  selfish  guile; 
A  father  who  is  all  a  tyrant  seems, 
"Were  the  profaner  for  his  sacred  name. 

GIACOMO. 

Ask  me  not  what  I  think  ;  the  unwilling  brain 

Feigns  often  what  it  would  not ;  and  we  trust 

Imagination  with  such  phantasies 

As  the  tongue  dares  not  fashion  into  words, 

Which  have  no  words,  their  horror  makes  them  dim 

To  the  mind's  eye.     My  heart  denies  itself 

To  think  what  you  demand. 

OKSINO. 

But  a  friend's  bosom 
Is  as  the  inmost  cave  of  our  own  mind, 
Where  we  sit  shut  from  the  wide  gaze  of  day, 
And  from  the  all-communicating  air. 
You  look  what  I  suspected  — 

GIACOMO. 

Spare  me  now  ! 
I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  wood, 
Who  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  passenger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he, 
As  my  thoughts  are,  should  be  —  a  murderer. 
I  know  you  are  my  friend,  and  all  I  dare 
Speak  to  my  soul  that  will  I  trust  w^ith  thee. 
But  now  my  heart  is  heavy,  and  would  take 
Lone  counsel  from  a  night  of  sleepless  care. 
Pardon  me,  that  I  say  farewell  —  farewell ! 
I  would  that  to  my  ow^n  suspected  self 
I  could  address  a  word  so  full  of  peace. 

ORSINO. 

Farewell !  —  Be  your  thoughts  better  or  more  bold. 

[Exit  GiACOMO. 
I  had  disposed  the  Cardinal  Camillo 
To  feed  his  hope  with  cold  encouragement: 
It  fortunately  serves  my  close  designs 
That  'tis  a  trick  of  this  same  family 
To  analyze  their  own  and  other  minds. 
Such  self-anatomy  shall  teach  the  will 
Dangerous  secrets  :  for  it  tempts  our  powers, 
Knowing  what  must  be  thought,  and  may  be  done, 
Into  the  depth  of  darkest  purposes  : 
So  Cenci  fell  into  the  pit ;  even  I, 
Since  Beatrice  unveiled  me  to  myself, 
And  made  me  shrink  from  what  I  can  not  shun, 
Show  a  poor  figure  to  my  own  esteem, 
To  which  I  grow  half  reconciled.     I'll  do 
As  little  mischief  as  I  can ;  that  thought 
Shall  fee  the  accuser  conscience. 

22  [After  a  pause. 


338 


THE    CENCI. 


Now  what  harm 
If  Cenci  should  be  murdered?     Yet,  if  murdered. 
Wherefore  by  me  ?     And  what  if  I  could  take 
The  profit,  yet  omit  the  sin  and  peril 
In  such  an  action.     Of  all  earthly  things 
I  fear  a  man  whose  blows  outspeed  his  words ; 
And  such  is  Cenci :  and  while  Cenci  lives 
His  daughter's  dowry  were  a  secret  grave 
If  a  priest  wins  her.     Oh,  fair  Beatrice  ! 
Would  that  I  loved  thee  not,  or,  loving  thee. 
Could  but  despise  danger  and  gold  and  all 
That  frowns  between  my  wish  and  its  effect, 
Or  smiles  beyond  it!     There  is  no  escape : 
Her  bright  form  kneels  beside  me  at  the  altar, 
And  follows  me  to  the  re.'jort  of  men, 
And  fills  my  slumber  w^ith  tumultuous  dream.s. 
So  when  I  wake  my  blood  seems  liquid  fire ; 
And  if  I  strike  my  damp  and  dizzy  head, 
My  hot  palm  scorches  it  :  her  very  name, 
But  spoken  by  a  stranger,  makes  my  heart 
Sicken  and  pant ;  and  thus  unprofitably 
I  clasp  the  phantom  of  unfelt  delights. 
Till  weak  imagination  half  possesses 
The  self-created  shadow.     Yet  much  longer 
Will  I  not  nurse  this  life  of  feverous  hours: 
From  the  unravelled  hopes  of  Giacomo 
I  must  work  out  my  own  dear  purposes. 
I  see.  as  from  a  tower,  the  end  of  all : 
Her  father  dead  ;  her  brother  bound  to  me 
By  a  dark  secret,  surer  than  the  grave  ; 
Her  mother  scared  and  unex postulating 
From  the  dread  manner  of  her  wish  achieved  : 
And  .she!  —  once  more  take  courage,  my  faint  heart; 
What  dares  a  friendless  maiden  matched  with  thee  ? 
I  have  such  foresight  as  a.ssures  success  ; 
Some  unbeheld  divinity  doth  ever, 
When  dread  events  are  near,  stir  up  men's  minds 
To  black  sugge.stions ;  and  he  prospers  best, 
Not  who  becomes  the  instrument  of  ill, 
But  who  can  flatter  the  dark  spirit,  that  makes 
Its  empire  and  its  prey  of  other  hearts, 
Till  it  become  his  slave  —  as  I  will  do.  [Exit. 


END    OF    THE    SECOND    ACT. 


THE    CENCl.  339 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I. 
An  Apartment  iti  tfie  Cenci  Palace 

LUCRETIA  ;  to  her  enter  BKATRICE. 

BEATRICE  [she  enters  staggering,  and  speaks  wildly). 

Reach  me  that  handkerchief!     My  brain  is  hart; 
My  eyes  are  full  of  blood  ;  just  wipe  them  for  me — 
1  see  but  indistinctly. 

LUCUETIA. 

My  sweet  child, 
You  have  no  wound  ;  'tis  only  a  cold  dew 
That  starts  from  your  dear  brow.     Alas !  alas  ! 
What  has  befallen  ? 

BEATRICE. 

How^  comes  this  hair  undone  ? 
Its  wandering  strings  must  be  what  blind  me  so, 
And  yet  I  tied  it  fast.     O,  horrible  ! 
The  pavement  sinks  under  my  feet !     The  walls 
Spin  round !     I  see  a  woman  weeping  there, 
And  standing  calm  and  motionless,  while  I 
Slide  giddily  as  the  world  reels.     My  God  ! 
The  beautiful  blue  heaven  is  flecked  with  blood  ! 
The  sunshine  on  the  floor  is  black  !     The  air 
Is  changed  to  vapors  such  as  the  dead  breathe 
In  charnel  pits !     Pah  !  I  am  choked  !     There  creeps 
A  clinging,  black,  contaminating  mist 
About  me  —  'tis  substantial,  heavy,  thick, 
I  can  not  pluck  it  from  me,  for  it  glues 
My  fingers  and  my  limbs  to  one  another, 
And  eats  into  my  sinews,  and  dissolves 
My  flesh  to  a  poUation,  poisoning 
The  subtle,  pure,  and  inmost  spirit  of  life ! 
My  God !  I  never  knew  what  the  mad  felt 
Before  ;  for  I  am  mad  beyond  all  doubt !  {More  wildly. 

No,  I  am  dead  !     These  putrefying  limbs 
Shut  round  and  sepulchre  the  panting  soul 
Which  would  burst  forth  into  the  wandering  air ! 

[A  pause. 
What  hideous  thought  was  that  I  had  even  now  ? 
'Tis  gone  ;  and  yet  its  burthen  remains  here 
O'er  these  dull  eyes  —  upon  this  weary  heart! 
O,  world  !  O  life  !  O  day  !  O  misery  ! 

LUCKETIA. 

What  ails  thee,  my  poor  child  ?     She  answers  not : 
Her  spirit  apprehends  the  sense  of  pain, 


340  THE    CENCI. 

But  not  its  cause  ;  suffering  has  dried  away 
The  source  from  which  it  sprung.  — 

BEATRICE  (frantically). 

Like  parricide  — 
Misery  has  killed  its  father  :  yet  its  father 
Never  like  mine.     O  God  !  w^hat  thing  am  I  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

My  dearest  child,  what  has  your  father  done  ? 

BEATRICE  [doubtfully). 
Who  art  thou,  questioner  ?     I  have  no  father. 

[Aside. 
She  is  the  madhouse  nurse  who  tends  on  me  : 
It  is  a  piteous  office. 

[To  LucRETiA,  in  a  slotv,  subdued  voice. 
Do  you  know, 
1  thought  I  was  tliat  wretched  Beatrice 
Men  speak  of,  whom  her  father  sometimes  hales 
From  hall  to  hall  by  the  entangled  hair; 
At  others,  pens  up  naked  in  damp  cells 
Where  scaly  reptiles  crawl,  and  starves  her  there. 
Till  she  will  eat  strange  flesh.     This  woeful  story 
So  did  I  overact  in  my  .<ick  dreams, 
That  I  imagined  —  no,  it  can  not  be  ! 
Horrible  things  have  been  in  this  wild  world. 
Prodigious  mixtures,  and  confusions  strange 
Of  good  and  ill ;  and  worse  have  been  conceived 
Than  ever  there  was  found  a  heart  to  do. 
But  never  fancy  imaged  such  a  deed 
As —  [Pauses,  suddenly  recollecting  herself. 

Who  art  thou  ?    Swear  to  me,  ere  I  die 
With  fearful  expectation,  that  indeed 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seemest  —  mother  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh! 

My  sweet  child,  know  you  — 

BEATRICE. 

Yet  speak  it  not  : 
For  then  if  this  be  truth,  that  other  too 
Must  be  a  truth,  a  firm  enduring  truth. 
Linked  with  each  lasting  circumstance  of  life, 
Never  to  change,  never  to  pass  away. 
Why  so  it  is.     This  is  the  Cenci  palace  ; 
Thou  art  Lucretia  ;  I  am  Beatrice. 
I  have  talked  some  wild  words,  but  will  no  more. 
Mother,  come  near  me  :  from  this  point  of  time, 
1  am —  [Her  voice  dies  away  faintly. 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas  !  what  has  befallen  thee,  child  ? 
What  has  thy  father  done  ? 


THE    CENCI.  341 

BEATRICE. 

What  have  I  done  ? 
Am  I  not  innocent  ?     Is  it  my  crime 
That  one  with  white  hair  and  imperious  brow, 
"Who  tortured  me  from  my  forgotten  years, 
As  parents  only  dare,  should  call  himself 
My  father,  yet  should  be  !  —  Oh,  what  am  I  ? 
"What  name,  what  place,  what  memory  shall  be  mine  ? 
"What  retrospects,  outliving  even  despair  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

He  is  a  violent  tyrant,  surely,  child  : 

"We  know  that  death  alone  can  make  us  free  ; 

His  death  or  ours.     But  what  can  he  have  done 

Of  deadlier  outrage  or  worse  injury  ? 

Thou  art  unlike  thyself;  thine  eyes  shoot  forth 

A  wandering  and  strange  spirit.     Speak  to  me  ! 

Unlock  those  pallid  hands  whose  fingers  twine 

With  one  another. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  the  restless  life 
Tortured  within  them.     If  I  try  to  speak 
I  shall  go  mad.     Ay,  something  must  be  done  ; 
What,  yet  I  know  not  —  something  which  shall  make 
The  thing  that  I  have  suffered  but  a  shadow 
In  the  dread  lightning  which  avenges  it : 
Brief,  rapid,  irreversible,  destroying 
The  consequence  of  what  it  can  not  cure. 
Some  such  thing  is  to  be  endured  or  done  : 
When  I  know  what.  I  shall  be  still  and  calm, 
And  never  anything  will  move  me  more. 
But  now  !  —  Oh  blood,  which  art  my  father's  blood, 
Circling  through  these  contaminated  veins, 
If  thou,  poured  forth  on  tlie  polluted  earth, 
Could  wash  away  the  crime,  and  punishment 
By  which  I  sutfer  —  no,  that  can  not  be  ! 
Many  might  doubt  there  were  a  God  above 
"Who  sees  and  permits  evil,  and  so  die: 
That  faith  no  agony  shall  obscure  in  me. 

LUCRETIA. 

It  must  indeed  have  been  some  bitter  wrong : 
Yet  what,  I  dare  not  guess.     Oh  !  my  lost  child, 
Hide  not  in  proud  impenetrable  grief 
Thy  sufferings  from  my  fear. 

BEATRICE. 

I  hide  them  not. 
What  are  the  words  which  you  would  have  me  speak  ? 
I,  who  can  feign  no  image  in  my  mind 
Of  that  which  has  transtbrmed  me.     I,  whose  thought 
Is  like  a  ghost  shrouded  and  folded  up 
In  its  own  formless  horror.     Of  all  words 
That  minister  to  mortal  intercourse, 


342  THE    CENCI. 

Which  wouldsi  thou  hear  ?     For  there  is  none  to  tell 

My  misery  :  if  another  ever  knew 

Aught  hke  to  it,  she  died  as  1  will  die, 

And  left  it,  as  I  must,  without  a  name. 

Death  !  death  !  Our  law  and  our  religion  call  thee 

A  punishment  and  a  reward.     Oh.  which 

Have  I  deserved  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

The  peace  of  innocence  ; 
Till  in  your  season  you  be  called  to  heaven. 
Whate'er  you  may  have  sutlered,  you  have  done 
No  evil.     Death  mu.st  be  the  punishment 
Of  crime,  or  the  reward  of  trampling  dow^n 
The  thorns  which  God  has  strewed  upon  the  path 
Which  leads  to  immortality. 

BEATRICE. 

Ay,  death  — 
The  punishment  of  crime.     I  pray  thee,  God, 
Let  me  not  be  bewildered  while  I  judge. 
If  I  must  live  day  after  day,  and  keep 
These  limbs,  the  unworthy  temple  of  thy  spirit, 
As  a  foul  den  from  which  what  thou  abhorrest 
May  mock  thee,  unavenged  —  it  shall  not  be  ! 
Self-murder —  no,  that  might  be  no  escape. 
For  thy  decree  yawns  like  a  hell  between 
Our  will  and  it.     Oh  !  in  this  mortal  Nvorld 
There  is  no  vindication  and  no  law 
Which  can  adjudge  and  execute  the  doom 
Of  that  through  which  I  suifer. 

Enter  ORSINO. 

(She  approaches  him  solemnly.)     Welcome,  friend  ! 

I  have  to  tell  you  that,  since  last  we  met, 

I  have  endured  a  wrong  so  great  and  strange. 

That  neither  life  nor  death  can  give  me  rest. 

Ask  me  not  what  it  is,  for  there  are  deeds 

Which  have  no  form,  sufferings  which  have  no  tongue. 

ORSINO. 

And  what  is  he  who  has  thus  injured  you  ? 

BEATRICE. 

The  man  they  call  my  father :  a  dread  name. 

ORSINO. 

It  can  not  be  — 

BEATRICE. 

What  it  can  be,  or  not, 
Forbear  to  think.     It  is,  aud  it  has  been : 
Advise  me  how  it  shall  not  be  again. 
I  thought  to  die  ;  but  a  religious  awe 
Restrains  me,  and  the  dread  lest  death  itself 
Might  be  no  refuge  from  the  (•ons(•iou^^nesB 
Of  what  is  yet  uaexpiutod.     Oh,  speak  ! 


THE    CENCl.  343 

ORSINO. 

Accuse  him  of  the  deed,  and  let  the  law 
Avenge  thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh,  ice-hearted  counselor ! 
If  I  could  find  a  word  that  might  make  known 
The  crime  of  my  destroyer  ;  and  that  done, 
My  tongue  should  like  a  knife  tear  out  the  secret 
Which  cankers  my  heart's  core  :  ay.  lay  all  bare. 
So  that  my  unpolluted  fame  should  be 
With  vilest  gossips  a  stale-moathed  story ; 
A  mock,  a  by-word,  an  astonishment : 
If  this  ^\'ere  done,  which  never  shall  be  done, 
Think  of  the  otFender's  gold,  his  dreaded  hate, 
And  the  strange  horror  of  the  accuser's  tale, 
Baffling  belief,  and  overpowering  speech  ; 
Scarce  whispered,  unimaginable,  wrapped 
In  hideous  hints  —  oh,  most  assured  redress  ! 

ORSINO. 

You  will  endure  it  then  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Endure  !  —  Orsino, 
It  seems  your  counsel  is  small  profit. 

[  Turns  from  him  and  speaks  half  to  herself. 

Ay, 

All  must  be  suddenly  resolved  and  done. 

What  is  this  undistinguishable  mist 

Of  thoughts,  which  rise,  like  shadow  after  shadow, 

Darkening  each  other  ? 

ORSINO. 

Should  the  oflFender  live  ' 
Triumph  in  his  misdeed  ?  and  make,  by  use, 
His  crime,  whate'er  it  is,  dreadful  no  doubt. 
Thine  element —  until  thou  mayest  become 
Utterly  lost  —  subdued  even  to  the  hue 
Of  that  which  thou  permitte.st  ? 

BEATRICE  (to  herself). 

Mighty  death ! 
Thou  double-visaged  shadow  !  only  judge  ! 
RightfuUest  arbiter  !  [Site  retires  absorbed  in  thought. 

LUCRETIA. 

If  the  lightning 
Of  God  has  e'er  descended  to  avenge  — 

ORSINO. 

Blaspheme  not !    His  high  providence  commits 
Its  glory  on  this  earth,  and  their  own  wrongs 
Into  the  hands  of  men  ;  if  they  neglect 
To  punish  crime  — 


344  THE    CENCI. 

LUCRETIA. 

But  if  one,  like  thia  wretch, 
Should  mock,  with  gold,  opinion,  law  and  power  ? 
If  there  be  no  appeal  to  that  which  makes 
The  guiltiest  tremble  ?    If,  because  our  wrongs, 
For  that  they  are  unnatural,  strange  and  monstrous, 
Exceed  all  measure  of  belief?     Oh  God, 
If.  for  the  very  reasons  which  should  make 
Redress  most  swift  and  sure,  our  injurer  triumphs  ? 
And  we,  the  victims,  bear  w^orse  punishment 
Than  that  appointed  for  their  torturer  1 

ORSINO. 

Think  not 
But  that  there  is  redress  where  there  is  wrong, 
So  we  be  bold  enough  to  seize  it. 

LUCRETIA. 

How? 
If  there  were  any  way  to  make  all  sure, 
I  know  not  —  but  I  think  it  mie:ht  be  good 
To  — 

ORSINO. 

Why,  his  late  outrage  to  Beatrice  ; 
For  it  is  such,  as  I  but  faintly  gue.'ss, 
As  makes  remorse  dishonor,  and  leaves  her 
Only  one  duty,  how  she  may  avenge  : 
You,  but  one  refuge  from  ills  ill  en( hired  ; 
Me,  but  one  counsel  — 

LUCRETIA. 

For  we  can  not  hope 
That  aid  or  retribution  or  resource 
Will  arise  thence,  where  every  other  one 
Might  find  them  with  less  need. 

(Beatrice  advances.) 

ORSINO, 

Then  — 

BEATRICE. 

Peace.  Orsino  ! 
And,  honored  lady,  while  I  speak,  I  pray 
That  you  put  off,  as  garments  overworn. 
Forbearance  and  respect,  remorse  and  fear. 
And  all  the  fit  restraints  of  daily  life. 
Which  have  been  borne  from  childhood,  but  which  now 
Would  be  a  mockery  to  my  holier  plea. 
As  I  have  said,  I  have  endured  a  wrong. 
Which,  though  it.be  expressionless,  is  such 
As  asks  atonement,  both  for  what  is  past. 
And  lest  I  be  reserved,  day  after  day. 
To  load  with  crimes  an  overburdened  soul. 
And  be  —  what  ye  can  dream  not.     I  have  prayed 
To  God,  and  I  have  talked  with  njy  own  heart. 


THE    CEXCI.  345 

And  have  unravelled  my  entangled  will, 
And  have  at  length  determhied  w^hat  is  right. 
Art  thou  my  friend,  Orsino  ?    False  or  true  ? 
Pledge  thy  salvation  ere  I  speak. 

ORSINO. 

T  swear 
To  dedicate  my  cunning  and  my  strength, 
My  silence  and  whatever  else  is  mine, 
To  thy  commands. 

LUCRETIA. 

You  think  we  should  devise 
His  death  ? 

BEATRICE. 

And  execute  w^hat  is  devised, 
And  suddenly.    We  must  be  brief  and  bold. 

ORSINO. 

And  yet  most  cautious. 

LUCRETIA. 

For  the  jealous  laws 
Would  punish  us  with  death  and  infamy 
For  that  wliich  it  became  themselves  to  do. 

BEATRICE. 

Be  cautious  as  ye  may,  but  prompt.     Orsino, 
What  are  the  means  ? 

ORSINO. 

1  know  two  dull,  fierce  outlaws, 
Who  think  man's  spirit  as  a  worm'.«,  and  they 
Would  trample  out,  for  any  slight  caprice, 
The  meanest  or  the  noblest  life.     This  mood 
Is  marketable  here  in  Rome.     They  sell 
What  w^e  now  want. 

LUCRETIA. 

To  morrow,  before  dawn, 
Cenci  will  take  us  to  that  lonely  rock, 
Petrella.  in  the  ApuHan  Apennines. 
If  he  arrive  there  — 

BEATRICE. 

He  must  not  an-ive. 

ORSINO. 

Will  it  be  dark  before  you  reach  the  tower  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

The  sun  will  scarce  be  set. 

BEATRICE. 

But  I  remember 
Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Cresses  a  deep  ravine  :  'tis  rouijh  and  narrow, 
And  wnids  with  .short  turns  dovN'n  the  precipice ; 


346  THE    CENCI. 

And  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 

Which  has,  from  unimaginable  years, 

Sustained  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 

Over  a  gulf,  and  with  the  agony 

With  which  it  clings,  seems  slowly  coming  down  ; 

Even  as  a  wretched  soul  hour  after  hour. 

Clings  to  the  mass  of  life — yet  clinging,  leans  ; 

And  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 

In  which  it  fears  to  fall :  beneath  this  crag 

Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness. 

The  melancholy  mountain  yawns  ;  below, 

You  hear  but  see  not  an  impetuous  torrent 

Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a  bridge 

Crosses  the  chasm  ;  and  high  above  there  grow^, 

W^ith  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag. 

Cedars  and  yews  and  pines,  whose  tangled  haii* 

Is  matted  into  one  solid  roof  of  shade 

By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noonday  here 

'Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night. 

ORSINO. 

Before  you  reach  that  bridge  make  some  excuse 
For  spurring  on  your  mules,  or  loitering 

Until  — 

BEATRICE. 

What  sound  is  that  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark !  No,  it  can  not  be  a  servant's  step  ; 

It  must  be  Cenci,  unexpectedly 

Returned.  —  Make  some  excuse  for  being  here. 

BEATRICE  (to  Orsino  as  skc  goes  out). 
That  step  we  hear  approach  must  never  pass 
The  bridge  of  which  we  spoke. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice. 

ORSINO. 

What  shall  I  do  ? 
Cenci  must  find  me  here,  and  1  must  bear 
The  imperious  inquisition  of  his  looks 
As  to  what  brought  me  hither  :  let  me  mask 
Mine  own  in  some  inane  and  vacant  smile. 

Enter  GIACOMO,  in  a  hurried  manner 

How^ !    Have  you  ventured  thither  ?  know  you  then 
That  Cenci  is  from  home  ? 

GIACOMO. 

I  sought  him  here  ; 
And  now  must  wait  till  he  returns. 

ORSINO. 

Great  God ! 
Weigh  you  the  danger  of  this  rashness  ? 


THE    CENCI. 
GIACOMO. 

Ay! 
Does  my  destroyer  know  his  danger  ?     We 
Are  now  no  more,  as  once,  parent  and  child, 
But  man  to  man  ;  tlie  oppressor  to  the  oppressed  j 
The  slanderer  to  the  slandered  ;  foe  to  foe. 
He  has  cast  Nature  off,  which  was  his  shield,;; 
And  Nature  casts  him  off,  who  is  lier  shame  : 
And  I  spurn  both.     Is  it  a  father's  throat 
Which  I  win  shake  ?  and  say,  '•  I  ask  not  gold  ; 
I  ask  not  happy  years  ;  nor  memories 
Of  tranquil  childhood  ;  nor  ho  me -.sheltered  love  ; 
Though  all  the.se  hast  thou  torn  from  me,  and  more : 
But  only  my  fair  fame  ;  only  one  hoard 
Of  peace,  which  I  thought  hidden  from  thy  hate, 
Under  the  penury  lieaped  on  me  by  thee  ; 
Or  1  will''  —  God  can  understand  and  pardon, 
Why  should  I  speak  with  man  ? 

ORSINO. 

Be  calm,  dear  friend. 

GIACOMO. 

W"ell,  I  will  calmly  tell  you  what  he  did. 

This  old  Francesco  Cenci,  as  you  know. 

Borrowed  the  dowry  of  my  wife  from  me, 

And  then  denied  the  loan  ;  and  left  me  so 

In  poverty,  the  which  I  .sought  to  mend 

By  holding  a  poor  office  in  the  state. 

It  had  been  promi.sed  to  me,  and  already 

I  bought  new  clothing  for  my  ragged  babes. 

And  my  wife  smiled  ;  and  my  heart  knew  repose  : 

When  Cenci's  intercession,  as  I  found, 

Conferred  this  office  on  a  wretch,  whom  thus 

He  paid  for  vilest  service.     I  returned 

With  this  ill  new.s,  and  we  sate  sad  together 

Solacing  our  despondency  with  tears 

Of  such  affection  and  unbroken  faith 

As  temper  life's  worst  bitterness:  when  he, 

As  he  is  wont,  came  to  upbraid  and  curse, 

Mocking  our  poverty,  and  telling  us 

Such  was  God's  scourge  for  disobedient  sons. 

And  then,  that  I  might  strike  him  dumb  with  shame, 

1  spoke  of  my  wife's  dowry  ;  but  he  coined 

A  brief  yet  specious  tale,  how  I  had  wa.sted 

The  sum  in  secret  riot :  and  he  saw 

My  wife  was  touched,  and  he  went  smiling  forth. 

And  when  I  knew  the  impres.sion  he  had  made, 

And  felt  my  wife  insult  with  .silent  scorn 

My  ardent  truth,  and  look  averse  and  cold. 

I  went  forth  too  :  but  soon  returned  again  ; 

Yet  not  so  .soon  but  that  my  wife  had  taught 

My  children  her  harsh  thoughts,  and  they  all  cried, 

"  Give  us  clothfis,  father  !    Give  us  better  Ibod  ! 


347- 


348  THE    CENCI. 

What  you  in  one  night  squander  were  enough 

For  mouths  !"  "I  looked,  and  saw  that  home  was  hell. 

And  to  that  hell  w;ill  I  return  no  more 

Until  mine  enemy  has  rendered  up 

Atonement,  or,  as  he  gave  life  to  me, 

I  will,  reversing  nature's  law^  — 

ORSINO. 

Trust  me, 
The  compensation  which  thou  seekest  here 
Will  be  denied. 

GIACOMO. 

Then  —  Are  you  not  my  friend  ? 
Did  you  not  hint  at  the  alternative. 
Upon  the  brink  of  which  you  see  I  stand, 
The  other  day  when  we  conversed  together? 
My  wrongs  were  then  less.     That  word  parricide, 
Although  1  am  resolved,  haunts  me  like  fear. 

OKSINO. 

It  must  be  fear  itself,  for  the  bare  word 

Is  hollow  mockery.     Mark,  how  wisest  God 

Draws  to  one  point  the  threads  of  a  just  doom, 

So  sanctifying  it :  what  you  devise 

Is,  as  it  were,  accomplished. 

GIACOMO. 

Is  he  dead  ? 

ORSINO. 

His  grave  is  ready.     Know  that  since  we  met, 
Cenci  has  done  an  outrage  to  his  daughter. 

GIACOMO. 

What  outrage  ? 

ORSINO. 

That  she  speaks  not,  but  you  may 
Conceive  such  half  conjectures  as  I  do. 
From  her  fixed  paleness,  and  the  lofty  grief 
Of  her  stem  brow,  bent  on  the  idle  air. 
And  her  severe  unmodulated  voice. 
Drowning  both  tenderness  and  dread  ;  and  last 
From  this  :  that  while  her  step-mother  and  I, 
Bewildered  in  our  horror,  talked  together 
With  obscure  hints  —  both  self-misunderstood, 
And  darkly  guessing,  stumbling,  in  our  talk, 
Over  the  truth,  and  yet  to  its  revenge  — 
She  interrupted  us,  and  with  a  look 
Which  told  before  she  spoke  it, .he  must  die — 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  enough.     My  doubts  are  well  appeased  : 
There  is  a  higher  reason  for  the  act 
Than  mine  ;  there  is  a  holier  judge  than  me, 
A  more  unblamed  avenger.     Beatrice, 
Who  in  the  gentleness  of  thy  sweet  youth 


THE    CEXCI,  349 

Hast  never  trodden  on  a  worm,  or  bruised 
A  living  flower,  but  thou  hast  pitied  it 
With  needless  tears  !     Fair  si.«ter,  tliou  in  whom 
Men  wondered  how  such  loveliness  and  wisdom 
Did  not  de.'Jtroy  each  other  !    Is  there  made 
Ravage  of  thee  ?     O,  heart,  1  ask  no  more 
Justification  !     Shall  I  wait,  Orsiiio, 
Till  he  return,  and  stab  him  at  the  door  ? 

OllSINO. 

Not  so  ;  some  accident  might  interpose 
To  rescue  him  from  what  is  now  most  sure ; 
And  you  are  unprovided  where  to  fly, 
How  to  excuse  or  to  conceal.     Nay,  listen  : 
All  is  contrived  ;  success  is  so  assured 
That-- 

JSnter  BEATRICE. 
BEATRICE. 

'Tis  my  brother's  voice  !     You  know  me  not  ? 

GIACOMO. 

My  sister,  my  lo.st  sister  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Lost  indeed ! 
I  see  Orsino  has  talked  with  you,  and 
That  you  conjecture  things  too  horrible 
To  speak,  yet  far  less  than  the  truth.     Now,  stay  not, 
He  might  return  :  yet  kiss  me  ;  I  shall  know 
That  then  thou  hast  consented  to  his  death. 
Farewell,  farewell !  v  Let  piety  to  God, 
Brotherly  love,  justice  and  clemency. 
And  all  things  that  "make  tender  hardest  hearts. 
Make  thine  hard,  brother,  n  Answer  not — farewell ! 

[Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  II. 
A  menu  Apartment  in  Giacomo's  House. 

GIACOMO  ato7ie. 
GIACOMO. 

'Tis  midnight,  and  Orsino  comes  not  yet. 

[Thunder,  and  the  sound  of  a  stnrii . 
What !  can  the  everlasting  elcinents 
Feel  with  a  worm  like  man  ?     If  so,  the  shaft 
Of  mercy-winged  lightning  would  not  fall 
On  stones  and  trees.     My  wife  and  children  .deep  : 
They  are  now  living  in  unmeaning  dreams: 
But  I  must  wake,  still  doubting  if  that  deed 
Be  just  which  was  nuKst  necessary.     O, 
Thou  unreploninhed  laui,»  !  whose  narrow  fire 


350  THE    CENCI. 

Is  shaken  by  the  wind,  and  on  whose  edf^e 

Devouring  darkness  hovers !     Thou  small  flame, 

Which,  as  a  dying  pulse  rises  and  falls, 

Still  flickerest  up  and  down,  how  very  soon, 

Did  I  not  feed  thee,  wouldst  thou  fail  and  be 

As  thou  hadst  never  been  !     So  wastes  and  sinks 

Even  now,  perhaps,  the  life  that  kindled  mine  : 

But  that  no  power  can  fill  with  vital  oil 

That  broken  lamp  of  flesh.     Ha  !  "tis  the  blood 

Which  fed  these  veins  that  ebbs  till  all  is  cold  : 

It  is  the  form  that  moulded  mine,  that  sinks 

Into  the  white  and  yellow  spasms  of  death  : 

It  is  the  soul  by  which  mine  was  arrayed 

In  God's  immortal  likeness  which  now  stands 

Naked  before  Heaven's  judgement-seat !        [A  hell  stiikes. 

One  !  two! 
The  hours  crawl  on ;  and  v^^hen  my  hairs  are  white, 
My  son  will  then  perhaps  be  waiting  thus. 
Tortured  between  just  hate  and  vain  remorse  ; 
Chiding  the  tardy  messenger  of  news 
Like  those  which  I  expect.     I  almost  wish 
He  be  not  dead,  although  my  wrongs  are  great ; 
Yet — 'tis  Orsino's  step  — 

JSnter  O  RSI  NO. 

Speak ! 

ORSXNO. 

I  am  come 

To  say  he  has  escaped. 

GIACOMO. 

Escaped! 

ORSINO. 

And  safe 
Within  Petrella.     He  passed  by  the  spot 
Appointed  for  the  deed  an  hour  too  soon. 

GIACOMO. 

Are  we  the  fools  of  such  contingencies  ? 

And  do  we  waste  in  blind  misgivings  thus 

The  hours  when  we  should  act  ?  Then  wind  and  thunder, 

Which  seemed  to  howl  his  knell,  is  the  loud  laughter 

With  which  Heaven  mocks  our  weakness  !    I  henceforth 

Will  ne'er  repent  of  aught  designed  or  done, 

But  my  repentance. 

ORSINO, 

See,  the  lamp  is  out ! 

GIACOMO. 

If  no  remorse  is  ours  when  the  dim  air 
Has  drank  this  innocent  flame,  why  should  w^e  quail 
When  Cenci's  life,  that  light  by  which  ill  spirits 
See  the  worst  deeds  they  prompt,  shall  sink  for  ever  ? 
No,  1  am  hardened. 


THE    CENCI. 
ORSINO. 

Why,  what  need  of  this  ? 
Who  feared  the  pale  intrusion  of  remorse 
In  a  just  deed  ?     Although  our  first  plan  failed, 
Doubt  not  but  he  will  soon  be  laid  to  rest. 
But  light  the  lamp  :  let  us  not  talk  i'  the  dark. 

GIACOMO. 

And  yet,  once  quenched,  I  can  not  thus  relume 
My  father's  life  :  do  you  not  think  his  ghost 
Might  plead  that  argument  w^ith  God  ? 

ORSINO. 

Once  gone, 
You  can  not  now  recall  your  sister's  peace  ; 
Your  own  extinguished  years  of  youth  and  hope  ; 
Nor  your  wife's  bitter  words  ;  nor  all  the  taunts 
Which,  from  the  prosperous,  w^eak  misfortune  takes  : 
Nor  your  dead  mother  ;  nor  — 

GIACOMO. 

O,  speak  no  more  ! 
I  am  resolved,  although  this  very  hand 
Must  quench  the  life  that  animated  it. 

ORSINO. 

There  is  no  need  of  that.     Listen :  you  know 

Olimpio,  the  castellan  of  Petrella 

In  old  Colonna's  time  :  him  whom  your  father 

Degraded  from  his  post  ?     And  Marzio, 

That  desperate  wretch,  whom  he  deprived  last  year 

Of  a  reward  of  blood,  well  earned  and  due  ? 

GIACOMO. 

I  knew  Olimpio  ;  and  they  say  he  hated 
Old  Cenci  so,  that  in  his  silent  rage 
His  lips  grew  white  only  to  see  him  pass. 
Of  Marzio  I  know  nothing. 

ORSINO. 

Marzio's  hate 
Matches  Olimpio's.     I  have  sent  these  men, 
But  in  your  name,  and  as  at  your  request, 
To  talk  with  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 

GIACOMO. 

Only  to  talk  ? 

ORSINO. 

The  moments  which  even  now 
Pass  onw^ard  to  to-morrow's  midnight  hour, 
May  memorize  their  flight  with  deatli :  ere  then 
They  must  have  talked,  and  may  perhaps  have  done, 
And  made  an  end. 

GIACOMO. 

Listen  !     What  sonnd  is  that  ? 


351 


352  THE    CENCI. 

ORSINO. 

The  house  dog  moans,  and  the  beams  crack  :  naught  else. 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  my  wife  complaining  in  her  sleep  : 

I  doubt  not  she  is  saying  bitter  things 

Of  me  ;  and  all  my  children  round  her  dreaming 

That  I  deny  them  sustenance. 

ORSINO. 

While  he 
Who  truly  took  it  from  them,  and  who  fills 
Their  hungry  rest  with  bitterness,  now  sleeps 
Lapped  in  bad  pleasures,  and  triumphantly 
Mocks  thee  in  visions  of  successful  hate 
Too  like  the  truth  of  day. 

GIACOMO. 

If  e'er  he  wakes 
Again,  I  w^ill  not  trust  to  hireling  hands  — 

ORSINO. 

Why,  that  were  well.     I  must  be  gone  :  good-night ! 
When  next  we  meet,  may  all  be  done  ! 

GIACOMO, 

And  all 
Forgotten.     Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  !  [Exeunt. 

END    OF    THE    THIRD    ACT. 


ACT     IV. 

SCENE  I. 
An  Apartment  in  the  Castle  of  PetreUa. 

Enter  CENCI. 


She  comes  not ;  yet  I  left  her  even  now 
Vanquished  and  faint.     She  knows  the  penalty 
Of  her  delay ;  yet  what  if  threats  are  vain  ? 
Am  I  not  now  within  Petrella's  moat  ? 
Or  fear  I  still  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Rome  ? 
Might  1  not  <lrag  her  by  the  golden  hair  ? 
Stamp  on  her  ?     Keep  her  sleepless  till  her  brain 
Be  overworn  ?     Tame  her  with  chains  and  famine  ? 
Less  would  .suffice.     Yet  so  to  Inave  undone 
What  I  mo.st  seek  !     No,  'tis  her  htubboru  will, 


THE    CEXCI.  353 

Which,  by  its  own  consent,  shall  sloop  as  low- 
As  that  which  drags  it  down. 

Enter  LUCRETIA. 

Tliou  loathed  wretch ! 
Hide  thee  from  my  abhorrence  :  Hy  !  begone  ! 
Yet  stay  !    Bid  Beatrice  come  hither. 

r.UCRETIA. 

Oh, 
Husband  !  I  pray,  for  thine  ow^u  -wretched  sake, 
Heed  what  tlioa  dost.     A  man  who  walks  like  thee 
Through  ctinies,  and  tln-ongli  the  danger  of  his  crimes, 
Each  hour  may  stumble  o'er  a  sudden  grave. 
And  thou  art  old  ;  thy  hairs  are  hoary  gray  ; 
As  thou  wouldst  save  thyself  from  death  and  hell, 
Pity  thy  daughter ;  give  her  to  some  friend 
In  marriage  :  so  that  .-he  may  tumpt  thee  not 
To  hatred,  or  worse  tlioughts,  if  worse  there  be. 

CENC]. 

What !  like  her  sitter,  who  has  found  a  home 
To  mock  my  hate  from  v\  ith  prosperity  ? 
Strange  ruin  sliall  destroy  both  her  an<i  thee, 
And  all  that  yet  remain.     My  death  may  be 
Rapid  —  her  destiny  otit-peeds  it.     Go, 
Bid  her  come  hither,  and  before  my  mood 
Be  changed,  lest  1  should  drag  her  by  the  hair. 

LUCUETIA. 

She  sent  nie  to  thee,  husband.     At  thy  presence 
Siie  fell,  as  thou  dost  know,  into  a  trance ; 
And  in  that  trance  she  heard  a  voice  which  said, 
••  Cenci  must  die  !     Let  him  confe.ss  him.self ! 
P^ven  now  the  accusing  angel  waits  to  hear 
If  God.  to  punish  his  enormous  crimes, 
Harden  his  dying  heart !"' 


Why  —  such  things  are  : 
No  doubt  divine  revcalings  may  be  made. 
'Tis  plain  I  have  been  tavored  from  above. 
For  when  I  cursed  my  .sons,  they  died.  —  Ay  —  so  — 
As  to  the  right  or  wrong,  that's  talk  —  repentance  — 
Repentance  is  an  easy  moment's  work. 
And  more  depends  on  God  than  me.     Well — well  — 
J  must  give  up  the  greater  point,  which  was 
To  poison  and  corrupt  her  soul. 

[A  pause;  Lucketia  approaches  anxiously,  and 
then  shrinks  back  as  he  Kpejks. 
One,  two ; 
Ay  —  Rocco  and  Cristofano  my  curse 
Strangled:  and  Giacomo,  1  think,  will  find 
Lite  a  worse  hell  than  that  beyond  the  ^n-ave: 
Beatrice  shall,  if  iheie  be  skill  in  Ijate, 
23 


354  THE    CENCI. 

Die  in  despair,  blaspheming :  to  Bernardo, 

He  is  so  innocent,  I  will  bequeath 

The  memory  of  these  deeds,  and  make  his  youth 

The  sepulchre  of  hope,  where  evil  thoughts 

Shall  grow  like  weeds  on  a  neglected  tomb. 

When  all  is  done,  out  in  the  wide  Campagna 

I  will  pile  up  my  silver  and  my  gold  — 

My  costly  robes,  paintings  and  tapestries, 

My  parchments  and  all  records  of  my  wealth  — 

And  make  a  bonfire  in  my  joy,  and  leave 

Of  my  possessions  nothing  but  my  name : 

Which  shall  be  an  inheritance  to  strip 

Its  wearer  bare  as  infamy.     That  done, 

My  soul,  w^hich  is  a  scourge,  w^ill  I  resign 

Into  the  hands  of  Him  who  wielded  it ; 

Be  it  for  its  own  puni.shment  or  theirs. 

He  will  not  ask  it  of  me  till  the  lash 

Be  broken  in  its  last  and  deepest  wound  ; 

Until  its  hate  be  all  inflicted.     Yet, 

Lest  death  outspeed  my  purpose,  let  me  make 

Short  work  and  sure.  [Going: 

LUCRETIA  ('stops  Mm). 

Oh,  stay  !    It  was  a  feint : 
She  had  no  vision,  and  she  heard  no  voice. 
I  said  it  but  to  awe  thee. 


That  is  well. 
Vile  palterer  with  the  sacred  truth  of  God, 
Be  thy  soul  choked  with  that  blaspheming  lie  ! 
For  Beatrice,  worse  terrors  are  in  store, 
To  bend  her  to  my  will. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh  !  to  what  will  ? 
What  cruel  sufferings,  more  than  she  has  known, 
Canst  thou  inflict  ? 


Andrea  !  go  call  my  daughter : 
And  if  she  comes  not.  tell  her  that  I  come. 
What  sufferings  ?     I  will  drag  her,  step  by  step, 
Through  infamies  unheard  of  among  men  : 
She  shall  stand  shelterless  in  the  broad  noon 
Of  public  scorn,  for  acts  blazoned  abroad. 
One  among  which  shall  be  —  v/hat  ?    Canst  thou  guess  ? 
She  shall  become  (for  what  she  most  abhors 
Shall  have  a  fascination  to  entrap 
Her  loathing  wiil)  to  her  own  conscious  self 
All  she  appears  to  others  :  and  when  dead, 
As  she  shall  die  unshrived  and  unforgiven, 
A  rebel  to  her  father  and  her  God, 
Her  corpse  shall  be  abandoned  to  the  hounds ; 
Her  name  shall  be  the  teiTor  of  the  earth ; 


THE    CENCI.  355 

Her  spirit  shall  approach  the  throne  of  God 
Plague-spotted  with  my  curses.     I  will  make 
Body  and  soul  a  monstrous  lump  of  ruin. 

Enter  ANDREA. 
ANDREA. 

The  lady  Beatrice  — 

CENCl. 

Speak,  pale  slave  !  What 
Said  she  ? 

ANDREA. 

My  lord,  'twas  what  she  looked  ;  she  said, 
"  Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  the  gulf 
Of  hell  between  us  two,  which  he  may  pass  — 
1  will  not."  [Exit  Andrea. 

CENCI. 

Go  thou  quick.  Lucretia, 
Tell  her  to  come  ;  yet  let  her  understand 
Her  coming  is  consent :  and  say,  moreover, 
That  if  she  come  not  I  will  curse  her.       [Exit  Lucretia. 

Ha! 
With  what  but  with  a  father's  curse  doth  God 
Panic  strike  armed  victory,  and  make  pale 
Cities  in  their  prosperity  ?     The  world's  Father 
Must  grant  a  parent's  prayer  against  his  child. 
Be  he  who  asks  even  what  men  call  me. 
Will  not  the  deaths  of  her  rebellious  brothers 
Awe  her  before  I  speak  ?    For  I  on  them 
Did  imprecate  quick  ruin,  and  it  came. 

Enter  LUCRETIA. 

Well :  what  ?    Speak,  wretch  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

She  said,  "  I  can  not  come  : 
Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  a  torrent 
Of  his  own  blood  raging  between  us." 

CENCI  fkneelinsrj- 

God! 
Hear  me  !     If  this  most  specious  mass  of  flesh. 
Which  thou  hast  made  my  daughter ;  this  my  blood. 
This  particle  of  my  divided  being  ; 
Or  rather,  this  my  bane  and  my  disease, 
Whose  sight  infects  and  poisons  me  ;  this  devil 
Which  sprung  from  me  as  from  a  hell,  was  meant 
To  aught  good  use  ;  if  her  briglit  loveliness 
Was  kindled  to  illumine  this  dark  world  ; 
If  nursed  by  thy  selectest  dew  of  love. 
Such  virtues  blossom  in  hor  as  should  make 
The  peace  of  life,  I  pray  thee  ibi*  n)y  sake, 
As  thou  the  common  God  and  Father  art 
Of  her,  and  me.  and  all :  reverse  that  doom  ! 


356  THE    CENCI. 

Earth,  in  the  name  of  GoJ,  let  her  food  be 
Poison,  until  she  be  encrusted  round 
With  leprous  stains  !    Heaven,  rain  upon  her  head 
The  blistering  drops  of  the  Maremma's  dew, 
Till  she  be  speckled  like  a  toad  !  parch  up 
Those  love  enkindled  lips,  warp  those  line  limbs 
To  loathed  lameness  !  All-beholding  sun, 
Strike  in  thine  envy  those  life  darting  eyes 
With  thine  own  Winding  beams  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

Peace !  peace ! 
For  thine  own  sake  unsay  those  dreadful  words. 
When  high  God  grants,  he  punishes  such  prayers. 

CENCI  ('leaping'  up,  and  throiaing  his  right  hand  tmi'ord 

heaven). 
He  does  his  will,  I  mine  !     This  in  addition, 
That  if  she  have  a  child 

LUCRETIA. 

Horrible  thought ! 

CENCI. 

That  if  she  ever  have  a  child  —  and  thou, 

duick  Nature  !  I  adjure  thee  by  thy  God, 

That  thou  be  fruitful  in  her.  and  increa.se 

And  multiply,  fulfilling  his  command, 

And  my  deep  imprecation  !  —  may  it  be 

A  hideous  likeness  of  herself :  that  as 

From  a  distorting  mirror,  she  may  see 

Her  image  mixed  with  what  she  most  abhors. 

Smiling  upon  her  from  her  nursing  breast : 

And  that  the  child  may  from  its  infancy 

Grow,  day  by  day,  more  wicked  and  deformed. 

Turning  her  mother's  love  to  misery  : 

And  that  both  she  and  it  may  live,  until 

It  shall  repay  her  care  and  pain  with  hate. 

Or  what  may  else  be  more  unnatural. 

So  he  may  hunt  her  through  the  clamorous  scoffs 

Of  the  loud  world  to  a  di.shonored  grave. 

Shall  I  revoke  this  curse  ?    Go,  bid  her  come. 

Before  my  words  are  chronicled  in  heaven  ! 

[Exit  LuCRETIA, 
I  do  not  feel  as  if  1  were  a  man. 
But  like  a  fiend  appointed  to  chastise 
The  offences  of  some  unremembered  world. 
My  blood  is  running  up  and  down  my  veins  ! 
A  fearful  pleasure  makes  it  prick  and  tingle  : 
I  feel  a  giddy  sickness  of  strange  a\ve  ; 
My  heart  is  beating  with  an  expectation 
Of  horrid  joy  ! 

Enter  LUCRETIA. 

What  ?    Speak ! 


THE    CENCI.  357 

LUCRETIA. 

She  bids  thee  curse  ; 
And  if  thy  curses  —  as  they  can  not  do  — 
Could  kill  her  soul — 

CENCI. 

She  would  not  come  !    'Tis  well, 
I  can  do  both  :  first  take  what  I  demand, 
And  then  extort  concession.     To  thy  chamber  ! 
Fly  ere  I  spurn  thee  :  and  beware  this  night 
That  thou  cross  not  my  footsteps.     It  were  safer 
To  come  between  the  tiger  and  his  prey. 

[Exit  Ltjcretia. 
It  must  be  late  :  mine  eyes  grow  weary  dim 
With  unaccustomed  heaviness  of  sleep. 
Con.science  !  Oh,  thou  most  insolent  of  lies  ! 
They  say  that  sleep,  that  healing  dew  of  heaven, 
Steeps  not  in  balm  the  foldings  of  the  brain 
Which  thinks  thee  an  impo.stor.     I  w^ill  go. 
First  to  belie  thee  with  an  hour  of  rest. 
Which  will  be  deep  and  calm,  1  feel :  and  then  — 
O.  multitudinous  hell,  the  fiends  will  shake 
Thine  arches  with  the  laughter  of  their  joy ! 
There  shall  be  lamentation  heard  in  heaven 
As  o'er  an  angel  fallen  ;  and  upon  earth 
All  good  shall  droop  and  sicken,  and  ill  things 
Shall,  with  a  spirit  of  unnatural  life, 
Stir  and  be  quickened  —  even  as  I  am  now.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II. 
Before  the  Castle  of  Petrella. 

Enter  BEATRICE  and  LUCRETIA  abwe  mi  the  ramparts. 
BEATRICE. 

They  come  not  yet. 

LUCRETIA. 

'Tis  scarce  midnight. 

BEATRICE. 

How  slow 
Behind  the  course  of  thought,  even  sick  with  speed, 
Lags  leaden-footed  time ! 

LUCRETIA. 

The  minutes  pass  — 
If  he  should  wake  before  the  deed  is  done  ? 

BEATRICE. 

O,  mother !  he  must  never  wake  again. 
What  thou  ha.st  said  persuades  me  that  our  act 
Will  but  dislodge  a  spirit  of  deep  hell 
Out  of  a  human  form. 


358  THE    CENCI. 


'Tis  true  he  spoke 
Of  death  and  judgement  with  strange  confidence 
For  one  so  wicked  :  as  a  man  believing 
In  God,  yet  recking  not  of  good  or  ill. 
And  yet  to  die  without  confession  !  — 

BEATRICE. 

Oh! 
Believe  that  Heaven  is  merciful  and  just, 
And  will  not  add  our  dread  necessity 
To  the  amount  of  his  oftences. 

ErUer  OLIMPIO  and  MARZIO,  below. 
LUCRETIA. 

See, 
They  come ! 

BEATRICE. 

All  mortal  things  must  hasten  thus 
To  their  dark  end.     Let  us  go  down. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice  from  above. 

OLIMPIO. 

How  feel  you  to  this  work  ? 

MARZIO, 

As  one  who  thinks 
A  thousand  crowns  excellent  market  price 
For  an  old  murderer's  life.     Your  cheeks  are  pale. 

OLIMPIO. 

It  is  the  white  reflection  of  your  own, 
"Which  you  call  pale. 

MARZIO. 

Is  that  their  natural  hue  ? 

OLIMPIO. 

Or  'tis  my  hate,  and  the  deferred  desire 
To  wreak  it,  which  extinguishes  their  blood. 

MARZIO. 

You  are  inclined  then  to  this  business  ? 


Ay, 
If  one  should  bribe  me  with  a  thousand  crowns 
To  kill  a  serpent  which  had  stung  my  child, 
I  could  not  be  more  willing. 

Unter  BEATRICE  and  LUCRETIA  below. 

Noble  ladies ! 

BEATRICE. 

Are  ye  resolved  ? 


THE    CENCI.  359 

OLIMPIO. 
Is  he  asleep  ? 

MARZIO. 

Ib  all 
auiet  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

I  mixed  an  opiate  with  his  drink  : 
He  sleeps  so  soundly  — 

BEATRICE. 

That  his  death  will  be 
B  at  as  a  change  of  sin-chastizing  dreams, 
A  dark  continuance  of  the  hell  within  him, 
Which  God  extinguish  !     But  ye  are  resolved? 
Ye  knjjw  it  is  a  high  and  holy  deed  1 

OLIMPIO. 

We  are  resolved. 

MARZIO. 

As  to  the  how  this  act 
Be  warranted,  it  rests  with  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Well,  follow ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Hush  !     Hark !     What  noise  is  that  ? 

MARZIO. 

Ha !  some  one  comes  ' 

BEATRICE. 

Ye  conscience-stricken  cravens,  rock  to  rest 
Your  baby  hearts.     It  is  the  iron  gate, 
Which  ye  left  open,  swinging  to  the  wind, 
That  enters  whistling  as  in  scorn.     Come,  follow  ! 
And  be  your  steps  like  mine,  light,  quick,  and  bold. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. 
An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  BEATRICE  and  LUCRETIA. 
LUCRETIA. 

They  are  about  it  now. 

BEATRICE. 

Nay,  it  is  done. 

LUCRETIA. 

I  have  not  heard  him  groan. 

BEATRICE. 

He  will  not  groaii. 


360  THE    CENCI. 

LUCRETIA. 

"What  sound  is  that  ? 


About  his  bed. 


BEATRICE. 

Li.st !  'tis  the  tread  of  feet 


LUCRETIA. 

My  God  I 


If  he  be  now  a  cold  stiflt*  corpse  — 

BEATRICE. 

O,  fear  not 
What  may  be  done,  but  what  is  left  undone  : 
The  act  seals  all. 

Enter  OLIMPIO  and  MARZIO. 

Is  it  accomplished  ? 

MARZIO. 

What? 


Did  you  not  call  ? 

BEATRICE. 

When? 

OLIMPIO. 

Now. 

BEATRICE. 


I  ask  if  all  is  over  ? 


OLIMPIO. 

We  dare  not  kill  an  old  and  sleeping  man  ; 
His  thin  gray  hair,  his  stern  and  reverent  brow, 
His  veined  hands  crossed  on  his  heaving  breast, 
And  the  calm  innocent  sleep  in  which  he  lay, 
duelled  me.     Indeed,  indeed,  I  can  not  do  it. 

.MARZIO. 

But  I  was  bolder ;  for  I  chid  Olimpio, 
And  bade  him  b^ar  his  wrongs  to  his  own  grave, 
And  leave  me  the  reward,  and  now^  my  knife 
Touched  the  loose  wrinkled  throat,  when  the  old  man 
Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  said,  "  God  !  hear,  O  hear, 
A  father's  curse  !     What  art  thou  not  our  father  ?" 
And  then  he  laughed.     I  knew  it  was  the  ghost 
Of  my  dead  father  speaking  through  his  lips. 
And  could  not  kill  him. 

BEATRICE. 

Miserable  slaves ! 
WTiere,  if  ye  dare  not  kill  a  sleeping  man, 
Found  ye  the  boldness  to  return  to  me 
With  such  a  deed  undone  ?     Base  palterers  ! 
Cowards  and  traitors !     Why,  the  very  conscience 


THE    CENCI.  361 

Which  ye  would  sell  for  gold  and  for  revenge 

Is  an  equivocation  :  it  sleeps  over 

A  thousand  daily  acts  disgracing  men ; 

And  when  a  deed  where  mercy  insults  heaven  — 

Why  do  I  talk  ? 

[Snatching^  a  dagger  from  one  of  them,  and  raismg  tt. 
Hadst  thou  a  tongue  to  say, 
She  murdered  her  own  father,  I  must  do  it ! 
But  never  dream  ye  shall  outlive  him  long  ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Stop,  for  (Jod's  sake  ! 

MARZIO. 

I  will  go  back  and  kill  him. 

OLIMPIO. 

Give  me  the  weapon,  we  must  do  thy  will. 

BEATRICE. 

Take  it !     Depart !     Return ! 

[Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 
How  pale  thou  art ! 
We  do  but  that  which  'twere  a  deadly  crjme 
To  leave  undone. 

LUCRETIA. 

Would  it  were  done  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Even  while 
That  doubt  is  passing  through  your  mind,  the  world 
Is  conscious  of  a  change.     Darkness  and  hell 
Have  swallowed  up  the  vapor  they  sent  forth 
To  blacken  the  sweet  light  of  life.     My  breath 
Comes,  methinks,  lighter,  and  the  jellied  blood 
Runs  freely  through  my  veins.    Hark  ! 

Enter  OLIMPIO  and  MARZIO. 

He  is — 

OLIMPIO.  '        « 

Dead! 

MARZIO. 

We  strangled  him,  that  there  might  be  no  blood ; 
And  then  we  threw  his  heavy  corpse  i'  the  garden 
Under  the  balcony ;  'twUl  seem  it  fell. 

BEATRICE  (giving  them  a  bag  of  coin). 
Here  take  this  gold  and  hasten  to  your  homes. 
And,  Marzio,  because  thou  wast  only  awed 
By  that  which  made  me  tremble,  wear  thou  this  ! 

[Clothes  him  in  a  rich  mantle. 
It  waa  the  mantle  which  my  grandfather 
Wore  in  his  high  prosperity,  and  men 
Envied  his  state  :  so  may  they  envy  thine. 
Thou  wert  a  weapon  in  the  hand  of  Gh>d 


362  THE    CENCI. 

To  a  just  use.     Live  long  and  thrive  !    And,  mark, 
If  thou  hast  crimes,  repent :  this  deed  is  none. 

[A  horn  is  sounded. 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  castle  horn  :  my  God  !  it  sounds 
Like  the  last  trump. 

BEATRICE. 

Some  tedious  guest  is  coming. 

LUCRETIA. 

The  drawbridge  is  let  down  :  there  is  a  tramp 
Of  horses  in  the  court !  —  fly,  hide  yourselves  ! 

[Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 

BEATRICE. 

Let  us  retire  to  counterfeit  deep  rest ; 

I  scarcely  need  to  counterfeit  it  now  : 

The  spirit  which  doth  reign  within  these  limbs 

Seems  strangely  undisturbed.     I  could  even  sleep 

Fearless  and  calm  :  all  ill  is  surely  past.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 
Another  Apartment  in  t)ie  Caatle. 

Enter  on  one  side  the  Legate  SAVELLA,  introduced  by  a  Servant,  and  c 
the  other  LUCRETIA  and  BERNARDO. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  duty  to  his  holiness 

Be  ray  excuse  that  thus  unseasonably 

I  break  upon  your  rest.     I  must  speak  with 

Count  Cenci :  doth  he  sleep  ? 

LUCRETIA  fin  a  hun-ied  and  coiifuRed  manner  J. 
*  I  think  he  sleeps : 

Yet,  wake  him  not,  I  pray  —  spare  me  awhile  — 
He  is  a  wicked  and  wrathful  man  ; 
Should  he  be  roused  out  of  his  sleep  to-night. 
Which  is,  I  know,  a  hell  of  angry  dreams. 
It  were  not  well :  indeed  it  were  not  well. 
Wait  till  daybreak.  — 

(Aside.)    O,  I  am  deadly  sick  ! 

SAVELLA. 

I  grieve  thus  to  distress  you,  but  the  count 
Must  answer  charges  of  the  gravest  import. 
And  suddenly  ;  such  my  commission  is. 

LUCRETIA  (with  increased  agitation). 
I  dare  not  rou.se  him,  I  know  none  who  dare  -, 
'Twere  perilous  :  you  might  as  safely  waken 


THE    CENCI.  3G3 

A  serpent,  or  a  corpse  in  which  some  fiend 
Were  laid  to  sleep. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  moments  here 
Are  counted.     I  must  rouse  him  from  his  sleep. 
Since  none  else  dare. 

LUCRETiA  (aside). 

O,  terror  !  O,  despair  ! 
(To  Bernardo.^  Bernardo,  conduct  you  the  lord  legate  to 
Your  father's  chamber. 

[Exeu7it  Savella  and  Bernardo. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 
BEATRICE. 

'Tis  a  messenger 
Come  to  arrest  the  culprit  who  now  stands 
Before  the  throne  of  unappealable  God. 
Both  Earth  and  Heaven,  con.senting  arbiters, 
Acquit  our  deed. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh,  agony  of  fear  ! 
Would  that  he  yet  might  live  !     Even  now  I  heard 
The  legate's  followers  vshisper  as  they  passed 
They  had  a  warrant  for  his  in.'<tant  death. 
All  was  prepared  by  unforbidden  means, 
Which  we  must  pay  so  dearly,  having  done. 
Even  now  they  search  the  towei-,  and  find  the  body; 
Now  they  suspect  the  truth  ;  now  they  consult 
Before  they  come  to  tax  us  with  the  fact ; 
O,  horrible,  'tis  all  discovered  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Mother, 
What  is  done  wisely,  is  done  well.     Be  bold 
As  thou  art  just.     'Tis  like  a  truant  child, 
To  fear  that  others  know  what  thou  hast  done. 
Even  from  thine  own  strong  conscio«snes.s,  and  thus 
W^rite  on  unsteady  eyes  and  altered  cheeks 
All  thoa  wouldst  hide.     Be  faithful  to  thyself, 
And  fear  no  other  witness  bat  thy  fear. 
For  if,  as  can  not  be,  some  circumstance 
Should  rise  in  accusation,  we  can  blind 
Suspicion  with  such  cheap  astoni.shinent. 
Or  overbear  it  with  such  guiltle.-^s  pride. 
As  murderers  can  not  feign.     The  deed  is  done, 
And  what  may  follow  now  regards  not  me. 
I  am  as  universal  as  the  light ; 
Free  as  the  earth  surrooanding  air  ;  as  firm 
As  the  world's  centre.     Consequence,  to  me. 
Is  as  the  wind  which  strikes  the  solid  rock. 
But  shakes  it  not.  [.4  cry  within  and  tumult. 


364  THE    CENCI. 


VOICES. 

Murder  !   Murder  !   Murder  ! 

Enter  BERNARDO  and  SAVELLA. 

SAVELLA  f'io  his  foUoiversJ. 
Go,  search  the  castle  round ;  sound  the  alarm  , 
Look  to  the  gates  that  none  escape  ! 

BEATRICE. 

What  now  ? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  say  —  my  father's  dead  ! 

BEATRICE. 

How  !  dead  ?  he  only  sleeps  ;  you  mistake,  brother. 
His  sleep  is  very  calm,  very  like  death  : 
'Tis  wonderful  how  well  a  tyraut  sleeps. 
He  is  not  dead  ? 

BERNARDO. 

Dead  —  murdered ! 
LUCRETiA  (with  extreme  agitation). 

Oh,  no.  no, 
He  is  not  murdered,  thousjh  he  may  be  dead  ; 
I  have  alone  the  keys  of  tho.se  apartments. 

SAVELLA. 

Ha  !     Is  it  so  ? 

BEATRICE. 

My  lord,  I  pray  excuse  us ; 
"We  will  retire  ;  my  mother  is  not  well ; 
She  seems  quite  overcome  w^ith  this  strange  horror. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatkici 

SAVELLA. 

Can  you  suspect  who  may  have  murdered  him  ? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  think. 

SAVELLA. 

Can  you  name  any 
Who  had  an  interest  in  his  death  ? 

BERNARDO. 

Alas! 
1  can  name  none  who  had  not,  and  those  most 
W^ho  most  lament  that  such  a  deed  is  done  — 
My  mother  and  my  sister  and  myself. 

SAVELLA. 

'Tis  strange  !     There  were  clear  marks  of  violence. 
I  found  the  old  man's  body  in  the  moonlight, 
Hanging  beneath  the  window  of  his  chamber 
Among  the  branches  of  a  pine  :  he  could  not 
Have  fallen  there,  for  all  his  limbs  lay  heaped 


THE    CENCI.  365 

And  effortless  :  'tis  true  there  was  no  blood.— 

Favor  me,  sir  —  it  much  imports  your  house 

That  all  should  be  made  clear  —  to  tell  the  ladies 

That  I  request  their  presence.  [Exeunt  BERNARDO. 

Enter  Guards,  bringing  in  MARZIO. 
GUARD. 

We  have  one. 

OFFICER. 

My  lord,  we  found  this  ruffian  and  another 
Lurking  among  the  rocks ;  there  is  no  doubt 
But  that  they  are  the  murderers  of  Count  Cenci : 
Each  had  a  bag  of  coin  ;  this  fellow  wore 
A  gold-inwoven  robe,  which,  shining  bright 
Under  the  dark  rocks  to  the  glimmering  moon. 
Betrayed  them  to  our  notice  :  the  other  fell 
Desperately  fighting. 

SAVELLA. 

W  hat  does  he  confess  ? 

OFFICER. 

He  keeps  firm  silence  ;  but  these  lines  found  on  him 
May  speak. 

SAVELLA. 

Their  language  is  at  lea.st  sincere.         [Reads. 

•'To  THE  Lady  Beatrice. 
"  That  the  atonement  of  what  my  nature  sickens  to  conjecture 
may  soon  arrive,  I  send  thee,  at  thy  brother's  desire,  those  who 
will  speak  and  do  more  than  1  dare  write. 

"  Thy  devoted  servant, 

"  Or,'!1no." 

Enter  LUCRETIA,  BEATRICE,  a,id  BERNARDO. 

Knowest  thou  this  writing,  lady  ? 

BEATRICE. 

No. 

SAVELLA. 

Nor  thou  ? 
LUCRETIA  fher  conduct  throuE^houl  the  scene  is  marked 

hy  extreme  agitation). 
Where  was  it  found  ?     What  is  it  ?     It  should  be 
Orsino's  hand  !     It  speaks  of  that  strange  horror 
Which  never  yet  found  utterance,  but  which  made 
Between  that  hapless  child  and  her  dead  father 
A  gulf  of  obscure  hatred. 

SAVELLA. 

Is  it  so  ? 
Is  it  true,  lady,  that  thy  father  did 
Such  outrages  as  to  awaken  in  thee 
Unfilial  hate  ? 


366  THE    CENCI. 

BEATRICE. 

Not  hate,  'twas  more  than  hate: 
This  is  most  true,  yet  wherefore  question  me  ? 

SAVELLA. 

There  is  a  deed  demanding  question  done  ; 
Thou  hast  a  secret  which  will  answer  not. 

BEATRICE. 

What  sayest  ?     My  lord,  your  words  are  bold  and  rash. 

SAVELLA. 

I  do  arrest  all  present  in  the  name 

Of  the  pope's  holiness.     You  must  to  Rome. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  not  to  Rome  !     Indeed  we  are  not  guilty. 

BEATRICE. 

Guilty  !    Who  dares  talk  of  guilt  ?     My  lord, 

I  am  more  innocent  of  parricide 

Than  is  a  child  born  fatherless.     Dear  mother, 

Your  gentleness  and  patience  are  no  shield 

For  this  keen-judging  world,  this  two  edged  lie, 

Which  seems,  but  is  not.     What !  will  human  laws, 

Rather  will  ye  who  are  their  ministers, 

Bar  all  access  to  retribution  first, 

And  then,  when  Heaven  doth  interpose  to  do 

What  ye  neglect,  arming  familiar  tilings 

To  the  redress  of  an  unwonted  crime. 

Make  ye  the  victims  who  demanded  it 

Culprits  ?     'Tis  ye  are  culprits  !     That  poor  wretch 

Who  stands  so  pale  and  trembling  and  amazed, 

If  it  be  true  he  murdered  Cenci,  was 

A  sw^ord  in  the  right  hand  of  justest  God. 

Wherefore  should  I  have  wielded  it  ?  unless 

The  crimes,  which  mortal  tongue  dare  never  name, 

God  therefore  scruples  to  avenge  ? 

SAVELLA. 

You  own 
That  you  desired  his  death  ? 

BEATRICE. 

It  would  have  been 
A  crime  no  less  than  his,  if  for  one  moment 
That  fierce  desire  had  faded  in  my  heart. 
'Tis  true  I  did  believe  and  hope  and  pray, 
Ay,  I  even  knew  —  for  God  is  wise  and  ju.st  — 
That  some  strange  .sudden  death  hung  over  him. 
'Tis  true  that  this  did  happen,  and  most  true 
There  was  no  other  rest  for  me  on  earth. 
No  other  hope  in  heaven  :  now  what  of  this  ? 

SAVELLA. 

Strange  thoughts  beget  strange  deeds  ;  and  here  ure  both  ; 
I  judge  thee  not. 


THE    CENCI.  367 

BEATRICE. 

And  yet,  if  you  arrest  me, 
You  are  the  judge  and  executioner 
Of  that  which  is  the  life  of  life  :  the  breath 
Of  accusation  kills  an  innocent  name, 
And  leaves  for  lame  acquittal  the  poor  life, 
Which  is  a  mask  without  it.     'Tis  most  false 
That  1  am  guilty  of  foul  parricide  ; 
Although  I  must  rejoice,  for  justest  cause. 
That  other  hands  have  sent  my  father's  soul 
To  ask  the  mercy  he  denied  to  me. 
Now  leave  us  free  ;  stain  not  a  noble  house 
With  vague  surmises  of  rejected  crime  ; 
Add  to  our  sutterings  and  your  own  neglect 
No  heavier  sum  ;  let  them  have  been  enough  : 
Leave  us  the  wreck  we  have. 

SAVELLA. 

I  dare  not,  lady. 
I  pray  that  you  prepare  yourselves  for  Rome  : 
There  the  pope's  further  pleasure  will  be  known. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  not  to  Rome  !     O,  take  us  not  to  Rome  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Why  not  to  Rome,  dear  mother  ?    There,  as  here, 

Our  innocence  is  as  an  arm^d  heel 

To  trample  accusation.     God  is  there 

As  here,  and  with  his  shadow  ever  clothes 

The  injured,  the  innocent  and  the  weak  : 

And  such  are  we.     Cheer  up,  dear  lady,  lean 

On  me  ;  collect  your  wandering  thoughts.     My  lord. 

As  soon  as  you  have  taken  some  refreshment, 

And  had  all  such  examinations  made 

Upon  the  spot,  as  may  be  necessary 

To  the  full  understanding  of  this  matter, 

We  shall  be  ready.     Mother  —  will  you  come  ? 

LUCRETIA, 

Ha !  they  will  bind  us  to  the  rack,  and  wrest 
Self  accusation  from  our  agony  ! 
Will  Giacomo  be  there  ?    Or.sino  ?    Marzio  ? 
All  present ;  all  confronted  ;  all  demanding 
Each  from  the  other's  countenance  the  thing 
Which  is  in  every  heart !     O,  misery  ! 

[  She  faints,  and  is  borne  out. 

SAVELLA. 

She  faints  :  an  ill  appearance  this. 

BEATRICE. 

My  lord, 
She  knows  not  yet  the  uses  of  the  world. 
She  fears  that  power  is  as  a  beast  which  grasps 
And  loosens  not ;  a  snake  whose  look  transmutes 


368  THE    CENUI. 

All  things  to  guilt  which  is  its  nutriment. 

She  can  not  know  how  well  the  supine  slaves 

Of  blind  authority  read  the  truth  of  things 

When  w^ritten  on  a  brow  of  guilelessness  : 

She  sees  not  yet  triumphant  Innocence 

Stand  at  the  judgement-seat  of  mortal  man, 

A  judge  and  an  accuser  of  the  wrong 

Which  drags  it  there.     Prepare  yourself,  my  lord  ; 

Our  suite  will  join  yours  in  the  court  below.  [Exeunt. 

END    OF    THE    FOURTH    ACT. 


ACT     V. 

SCENE  I. 
An  Apartment  in  Orsjno's  Palace. 

Enter  ORSINO  and  GIACOMO. 
GIACOMO. 

Do  evil  deeds  thus  quickly  come  to  end  ? 

O,  that  the  vain  remorse  which  must  chastise 

Crimes  done,  had  but  as  loud  a  voice  to  warn 

As  its  keen  sting  is  mortal  to  aveuije  ! 

O,  that  the  hour  when  present  had  cast  oft' 

The  mantle  of  its  mystery,  and  shown 

The  ghastly  form  with  which  it  now  returns 

When  its  scared  game  is  roused,  cheering  the  hounds 

Of  conscience  to  their  prey  !     Alas  !  alas  ! 

It  was  a  wicked  thouglu,  a  piteous  deed, 

To  kill  an  old  and  hoary-headed  father. 

,  ORSINO. 

It  has  turned  out  unluckily,  in  truth. 

GIACOMO. 

To  violate  the  sacred  doors  of  sleep ; 

To  cheat  kind  nature  of  the  placid  death 

Which  she  prepares  for  overwearied  age  ; 

To  drag  from  heaven  an  unrepentant  soul 

Which  might  have  quenched  in  reconciling  prayers 

A  life  of  burning  crimes  — 

ORSINO. 

You  can  not  say 
1  urged  you  to  the  deed. 

GIACOMO. 

O,  had  I  never 
Found  in  thy  smooth  and  ready  countenance 


THE    CENCI.  369 

The  mirror  of  my  darkest  thoughts  ;  hadst  thou 
Never  with  hints  and  questions  made  me  look 
Upon  the  monster  of  my  thought,  until 
It  grew  familiar  to  desire  — 

ORSINO. 

'Tisthus 
Men  cast  the  blame  of  their  unprosperous  acts 
Upon  the  abettors  of  their  own  resolve ; 
Or  any  thing  but  their  weak,  guilty  selves. 
And  yet,  confess  the  truth,  it  is  the  peril 
In  which  you  stand  that  gives  you  this  pale  sickness 
Of  penitence  ;  confess  'tis  fear  disguised 
From  its  own  shame  that  takes  the  mantle  now 
Of  thin  remorse.     W  hat  if  we  yet  were  safe  ! 

GIACOMO. 

How  can  tlmt  i)j  ?     Already  Beatrice, 
Lucretia  ami  i!.o  murderer,  are  in  prison. 
1  doubt  not  oiii' ers  are,  while  we  speak, 
Sent  to  airenl  us. 

ORSINO. 

1  have  all  prepared 
For  instant  flight.     We  can  escape  even  now, 
So  we  take  fleet  occasion  by  the  hair. 

GfACOMO. 

Rather  expire  in  tortures,  as  I  may. 
What !  will  you  cast  by  .'^eif  accusing  flight 
Assured  conviction  upon  Beatrice  ? 
She,  who  alone  in  this  unnatural  work, 
Stands  like  God's  angel  mini.stered  upon 
By  fiends  ;  avenging  such  a  nameless  wrong 
As  turns  black  parricide  to  piety  ; 
While  we  for  basest  ends —  1  fear,  Orsino, 
While  I  consider  all  your  words  and  looks. 
Comparing  them  w^ith  your  propo.sal  now. 
That  you  must  be  a  villain.     For  what  end 
Could  you  engage  in  such  a  perilous  crime. 
Training  me  on  with  hints  and  .signs  and  smiles, 
Even  to  this  gulf?     Thou  art  no  liar?  No, 
Thou  art  a  lie  !     Traitor  and  murderer  ! 
Coward  and  slave  !     But  no  —  defend  thyself: 

.  [Drawing. 
Let  the  sword  speak  what  the  indignant  tongue 
Disdains  to  brand  thee  with. 

ORSINO. 

Put  up  your  weapon. 
Is  it  the  desperation  of  your  fear 
Makes  you  thus  rash  atirl  sudden  with  your  friend. 
Now  ruined  for  your  sake  ?     If  honest  anger 
Have  moved  you.  know  tliut  whiit  I  juM  }iropo:^d 
•24 


370  THE    CENCI. 

Was  but  to  try  you.     As  for  me,  I  think 

Thankless  affection  led  me  to  this  point, 

From  which,  if  my  firm  temper  could  repent, 

I  can  not  now  recede.     Even  Avhile  we  speak 

The  ministers  of  justice  wait  below  : 

They  grant  me  these  brief  moments.     Now,  if  you 

Have  any  word  of  melancholy  comfort 

To  speak  to  your  pale  wife,  'twere  best  to  pass 

Out  at  the  postern,  and  avoid  them  so. 

GIACOMO. 

Oh,  generous  friend  !     How  canst  thou  pardon  me  ? 
Would  that  my  life  could  purchase  thine  ! 

ORSINO. 

That  wish 
Now  comes  a  day  too  late.     Haste  —  fare  thee  well ! 
Hear' St  thou  not  steps  along  the  corridor  ? 

[Exit  GlACOMO. 

I'm  sorry  for  it :  but  the  guards  are  waiting 

At  his  own  gate,  and  such  was  my  contrivance 

That  I  might  rid  me  both  of  him  and  them. 

I  thought  to  act  a  solemn  comedy 

Upon  the  painted  scene  of  this  new  world, 

And  to  attain  my  own  peculiar  ends 

By  some  such  plot  of  mingled  good  and  ill 

As  others  w^eave  ;  but  there  aro.se  a  Power 

Which  grasped  and  .snapped  the  threads  of  my  device, 

And  turned  it  to  a  net  of  ruin  —  Ha  ! 

[A  shout  is  heard. 
Is  that  my  name  I  hear  proclaimed  abroad  ? 
But  I  will  pass,  wrapped  in  a  vile  disguise ; 
Rags  on  my  back,  and  a  false  innocence 
Upon  my  face,  through  the  misdeeming  crowd 
Which  judges  by  what  seem.s.     'Tis  easy  then 
For  a  new  name  and  for  a  country  new. 
And  a  new  life,  fashioned  on  old  desires. 
To  change  the  honors  of  abandoned  Rome. 
And  these  must  be  the  masks  of  that  within. 
Which  must  remain  unaltered.  —  Oh,  I  fear 
That  what  is  past  will  never  let  me  rest ! 
Why,  when  none  else  is  conscious,  but  myself, 
.  Of  my  misdeeds,  should  my  own  heart's  contempt 
Trouble  me  ?     Have  I  not  the  power  to  fly 
My  own  reproaches  ?     Shall  I  be  the  slave 
Of — what  ?  A  word  !  which  those  of  this  false  world 
Employ  against  each  other,  not  themselves; 
As  men  wear  daggers  not  for  self-offence. 
But  if  I  am  mistaken,  where  shall  I 
Find  the  disguise  to  hide  me  from  myself, 
As  now  I  skulk  from  eveiy  other  eye  ?  [Exit. 


THE    CENCI.  371 

SCENE  II. 
A  Hall  of  Justice. 

CAMILLO    JUDGES,  etc.,  are  discovered  seated;  MARZIO  t*  led  w. 
FIRST   JUDGE. 

Accused,  do  you  persist  in  your  denial  1 

1  ask  you.  are  you  innocent,  or  guilty  ? 

I  demand  who  were  the  paiticipatons 

In  your  offence  ?    Speak  truth,  and  the  whole  truth. 

MARZIO. 

My  God  !  I  did  not  kill  him  ;  T  know  nothing ; 
Olimpio  sold  the  robe  to  me  from  which 
You  would  infer  my  guilt. 

SECOND    JUDGE. 

Away  with  liim  ! 
first  judge. 
Dare  you,  with  lips  yet  white  from  the  rack's  kiss 
Speak  false  ?     Is  it  so  soft  a  questioner, 
That  you  would  bandy  lovers'  talk  with  it. 
Till  it  wind  out  your  life  and  soul  ?     Away  ! 

MARZIO. 

Spare  me  !  O,  spare  !    I  will  confess. 

FIRST   JUDGE. 

Then  speak. 

MARZIO. 

I  strangled  him  in  his  sleep. 

FIRST    JUDGE. 

Who  urged  you  to  it  ? 

MARZIO. 

His  own  Bon  Giacomo,  and  the  young  prelate 
Orsino  sent  me  to  Petrella  :  there 
The  ladies  Beatrice  and  Lucretia 
Tempted  me  with  a  thousand  crowns,  and  I 
And  my  companion  forthwith  murdered  him. 
Now  let  me  die. 

FIRST    JUDGE. 

This  sounds  as  bad  as  truth.     Guards,  there, 
Lead  forth  the  prisoners. 

Enter  LUCRETIA,  BEATRICE,  and  GIACOMO,  guarded. 

Look  upon  this  man  : 
When  did  you  see  him  last  ? 

.      BEATRICE. 

We  never  saw  him. 


372  THE    CENCI. 

MARZIO. 

You  know  me  too  well,  Lady  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

I  know  thee  !     How  ?  w^here  ?  w^hen  ? 


You  know  'twas  I 
Whom  you  did  urge  with  menaces  and  bribes 
To  kill  your  father.     When  the  thing  was  done. 
You  clotbed  me  in  a  robe  of  woven  gold 
And  bade  me  thrive  :  how  I  have  thriven,  you  see. 
You,  my  Lord  Giacomo,  Lady  Lucretia, 
You  know  that  what  I  speak  is  true. 

[Beatrice  advances  toward  him  ;  he  covers  his 
face,  and  shrinks  back. 

Oh,  dart 
The  temble  resentment  of  those  eyes 
On  the  dread  earth  !     Turn  them  away  from  me  ! 
They  wound  :  'twas  torture  forced  the  truth.     My  lords, 
Having  said  this,  let  me  be  led  to  death. 

BEATRICE. 

Poor  wretch  !  I  pity  thee  :  yet  stay  awhile. 

CAMILI.O. 

Guards,  lead  him  not  away. 


Cardinal  Camillo, 
You  have  a  good  repute  for  gentleness 
And  wisdom :  can  it  be  that  you  sit  here 
To  countenance  a  wicked  farce  like  this  ? 
When  some  obscure  and  trembling  slave  is  dragged 
From  sufferings  v^-hich  might  shake  the  sternest  heart, 
And  bade  to  answer,  not  as  he  believes, 
But  as  those  may  suspect,  or  do  desire. 
Whose  questions  thence  suggest  their  own  reply  : 
And  that  in  peril  of  such  hideous  torments 
As  merciful  God  spares  even  the  damned.     Speak  now 
The  thing  you  surely  know,  which  is,  that  you. 
If  your  fine  frame  were  stretched  upon  that  wheel. 
And  you  were  told,  "  Confe.ss  that  you  did  poison 
Your  little  nephew^  —  that  fair  blue-eyed  child 
Who  was  the  load-star  of  your  life  ;"  and  though 
All  see.  since  his  mo.st  swift  and  piteous  death. 
That  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth,  and  time, 
And  all  the  things  hoped  for  or  done  therein 
Are  changed  to  you,  through  your  exceeding  grief, 
Yet  you  would  say,  '•  I  confess  anything"  — 
And  beg  from  your  tormentors,  like  that  slave. 
The  refuge  of  dishonorable  death. 
I  pray  tbee,  Cardinal,  that  thou  assert 
My  innocence. 


THE    CENCI.  373 

CAMiLLO  (much  moved). 
What  shall  we  think,  my  lords  1 
Shame  on  these  tears  !  I  thought  the  heart  was  frozen 
Which  is  their  fountain.     1  would  pledge  my  soul 
That  she  is  guiltless. 

.TUDGE. 

Yet  she  must  be  tortured. 

CAMILI.O, 

I  would  as  scon  have  tortured  mine  own  nephew  — 

(If  he  no^v  lived,  he  would  be  just  her  age : 

His  hair,  too,  was  her  color,  and  his  eyes 

Like  hers  in  shape,  but  blue,  and  not  so  deep)  — 

As  that  most  perfect  image  of  God's  love 

That  ever  came  sorrowing  upon  the  earth. 

She  is  as  pure  as  speechless  infancy  ! 

JUDGE. 

Well,  be  her  purity  on  your  head,  my  lord, 
If  you  forbid  the  rack.     His  holiness 
Enjoined  us  to  pursue  tins  monstrous  crime 
By  the  severest  forms  of  law  ;  nay  even 
To  stretch  a  point  against  the  criminals. 
The  prisoners  stand  accused  of  parricide, 
Upon  such  evidence  as  justifies 
Torture. 

BEATRICE. 

What  evidence  ?     This  man's  ? 


BEATRICE   (to   MaRZIO). 

Come  near.     And  w^ho  art  thou,  thus  chosen  forth 
Out  of  the  multitude  of  living  men 
To  kill  the  innocent  ? 


Thy  father's  vassal. 


MARZIO. 

I  am  Marzio, 


BEATRICE, 

Fix  thine  eyes  on  mine  : 
Answer  to  what  I  ask.  [  Turning  to  the  Jvdgcu. 

I  prithee  mark 
His  countenance  :  unlike  bold  calumny 
Which  sometimes  dares  not  .speak  the  thing  it  looks, 
He  dares  not  look  the  thing  he  speaks,  but  bends 
His  gaze  on  the  blind  earth. 

(To  Makzio.)     What!  wilt  thou  say 
That  I  did  murder  my  own  father  ? 

MARZIO. 

Oh! 
Spare  )ne  !   My  brain  swims  roii'i.l —  I  can  not  s[)f*nk —  . 


374  THE    CENCI. 

It  was  that  horrid  torture  forced  the  truth. 
Take  me  away  !     Let  her  not  look  on  me  ! 
1  am  a  guilty  miserable  wretch ; 
I  have  said  all  I  know  :  now  let  me  die  ! 

BEATRICE. 

My  lords,  if  by  my  nature  I  had  been 

So  stern,  as  to  have  planned  the  crime  alledged, 

Which  your  suspicions  dictate  to  this  slave, 

And  the  rack  makes  him  utter,  do  you  think 

I  should  have  left  this  two-edged  instrument 

Of  my  misdeed  —  this  man,  this  bloody  knife 

With  my  own  name  engraven  on  the  heft  — 

Lying  unsheathed  amid  a  world  of  foes. 

For  my  own  death  ?  That  with  such  horrible  need 

For  deepest  silence,  I  should  have  neglected 

So  trivial  a  precaution  as  the  making 

His  tomb  the  keeper  of  a  secret  written 

On  a  thief's  memory  ?     What  is  his  poor  life  ? 

What  are  a  thousand  lives  ?     A  parricide 

Had  trampled  them  like  dust :  and  see,  he  lives  ! 

[  Turning  to  Marzio. 
And  thou  — 

MARZIO. 

Oh,  spare  me  !     Speak  to  me  no  more  ! 
That  stern  yet  piteous  look,  those  solemn  tones, 
Wound  worse  than  torture. 

(  To  the  Judgea.)    I  have  told  it  all : 
For  pity's  sake  lead  me  away  to  death ! 

CAMILLO. 

Guards,  lead  him  nearer  the  lady  Beatrice ; 
He  shrinks  from  her  regard  like  autumn's  leaf 
From  the  keen  breath  of  the  serenest  north. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh,  thou  who  tremblest  on  the  giddy  verge 

Of  life  and  death,  pause  ere  thou  answerest  me; 

So  mayest  thou  answer  God  with  less  dismay : 

What  evil  have  we  done  thee  ?     I,  alas  ! 

Have  lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad  years, 

And  so  my  lot  was  ordered,  that  a  father 

First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening  life 

To  drops,  each  poisoning  youth's  sweet  hope  ;  and  then 

Stabbed  with  one  blow^  my  everlasting  soul, 

And  my  untainted  fame  ;  and  even  that  peace 

Which  sleeps  within  the  core  of  the  heart's  heart. 

But  the  wound  was  not  mortal ;  so  my  hate 

Became  the  only  worship  I  could  lift 

To  our  great  Father,  who  in  pity  and  love, 

Armed  thee,  as  thou  dost  say,  to  cut  him  off; 

And  thus  his  wrong  becomes  my  accusation  : 

And  art  thou  the  accuser  ?     If  thou  hope.st 

Mercy  in  heaven,  show  justice  upon  earth : 


THE    CENCI.  375 

Worse  than  a  bloody  hand  is  a  hard  heart. 

If  thou  hast  done  murders,  made  thy  life's  path 

Over  the  trampled  laws  of  God  and  man, 

Rush  not  before  thy  Judge,  and  say,  "  My  Maker, 

I  have  done  this  and  more  ;  for  there  was  one 

Who  was  most  pure  and  innocent  on  earth  ; 

And  because  she  endured  vi^hat  never  any, 

Guilty  or  innocent,  endured  before  ; 

Because  her  wrongs  could  not  be  told,  nor  thought'; 

Because  thy  hand  at  length  did  rescue  her  — 

I  with  my  words  killed  her  and  all  her  kin." 

Think,  I  adjure  you,  what  it  is  to  slay 

The  reverence  living  in  the  minds  of  men 

Toward  our  ancient  house,  and  stainless  fame  ! 

Think  what  it  is  to  strangle  infant  pity, 

Cradled  in  the  belief  of  guileless  looks, 

Till  it  become  a  crime  to  suffer.     Think 

What  'tis  to  blot  with  infamy  and  blood 

All  that  which  shows  like  innocence,  and  is, 

Hear  me,  great  God  !  I  swear,  most  innocent, 

So  that  the  world  lose  all  discrimination 

Between  the  sly,  fierce,  wild  regard  of  guilt. 

And  that  which  now  compels  thee  to  reply 

To  what  1  ask  :  Am  I,  or  am  I  not, 

A  parricide  ? 

MARZIO. 

Thou  art  not ! 

JUDGE. 

What  is  this  ? 

MARZIO. 

I  here  declare  those  whom  I  did  accuse 
Are  innocent.     'T is  I  alone  am  guilty. 

JUDGE. 

Drag  him  away  to  torments  :  let  them  be 
Subtle  and  long  drawn  out,  to  tear  the  folds 
Of  the  heart's  inmost  cell.     Unbind  him  not 
Till  he  confess. 

MARZIO. 

Torture  me  as  ye  will : 
A  keener  pain  has  wrung  a  higher  truth 
From  my  last  breath.     She  is  most  innocent  ! 
Bloodhounds,  not  men,  glut  yourselves  well  with  me  ! 
I  will  not  give  you  that  fine  piece  of  nature 
To  rend  and  ruin.  [Exit  Marzio,  guarded. 

CAMILLO. 

What  say  ye  now,  my  lords  ? 

JUDGE. 

Let  tortures  strain  the  truth  till  it  be  vyhite 
As  snow  thrice-sifted  by  tlie  frozen  wind. 


376  THE    CENCI. 

CAMILLO. 

Yet  stained  with  blood. 

JUDGE  (to  Beatrice). 

Know  you  this  paper,  lady  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Entrap  me  not  with  questions.     Who  stands  here 
As  my  accuser  ?     Ha  !  wilt  thou  be  he, 
Who  art  my  judge  ?  Accuser,  witness,  judge, 
What,  all  in  one  ?     Here  is  Orsino's  name  : 
Where  is  Orsino  ?     Let  his  eye  meet  mine. 
What  means  this  scrawl  ?    Alas  !  ye  know  not  what, 
And  therefore  on  the  chance  that  it  may  be 
Some  evil,  will  ye  kill  us  ? 

Enttr  an  Officer. 
OFFICER. 

Marzio's  dead. 

JUDGE. 

What  did  he  say  ? 

OFFICER. 

Nothing.     As  soon  as  we 
Had  bound  him  on  the  wheel,  he  smiled  on  us, 
As  one  w^ho  batHes  a  deep  adversary, 
And  holding  his  breath,  died. 

JUDGE. 

There  remains  nothing 
But  to  apply  the  question  to  those  prisoners. 
Who  yet  remain  stubborn. 

CAMILLO. 

I  overrule 
Farther  proceedings,  and  in  the  behalf 
Of  these  most  innocent  and  noble  persons 
Will  use  my  interest  with  the  holy  father. 

JUDGE. 

Let  the  pope's  pleasure  then  be  done.     Meanwhile 

Conduct  these  culprits  each  to  separate  cells  ; 

And  be  the  engines  ready  :  for  this  night. 

If  the  pope's  resolution  be  as  grave, 

Pious  and  just  as  once,  I'll  wring  the  truth 

Out  of  those  nerves  and  sinews,  groan  by  groan.    \Excvnt. 


SCENE  III. 

The  Cell  of  a  Prison. 

Beatrice  is  discovered,  asleep  on  a  couch. 

Enttr   BERNARDO. 
BERNARDO. 

How  gently  slumber  rests  upon  her  fare. 

Like  the  last  thoughts  of  some  day  sweetly  spent 


THE    CENCI.  377 

Closing  in  night  and  dreams  and  so  prolonged. 

After  such  torments  as  she  bore  last  night, 

How  light  and  soft  her  breathing  comes.     Ah,  me ! 

Methinks  that  I  shall  never  sleep  again. 

But  I  must  shake  the  heavenly  dew  of  rest 

From  this  sweet  folded  flower,  thus  —  wake  !  awake  ! 

What,  sister,  canst  thou  sleep  ? 

BEATRICE  (awaking). 

I  was  just  dreaming 
That  we  were  all  in  Paradise.     Thoa  knowest 
This  cell  seems  like  a  kind  of  Paradise 
After  our  father's  presence. 

BERNARDO. 

Dear,  dear  sister. 
Would  that  thy  dream  were  not  a  dream !  O,  God  ! 
How  shall  I  tell  ? 

BEATRICE. 

What  wouldst  thou  tell,  sweet  brother  ? 

BERNARDO. 

Look  not  so  calm  and  happy,  or,  even  while 
I  stand  considering  what  I  have  to  say, 
My  heart  will  break. 

BEATRICE. 

See  now,  thou  mak'st  me  weep  : 
How  very  friendless  thou  wouldst  be,  dear  child, 
If  I  were  dead.     Say  what  thou  hast  to  say. 

BERNARDO. 

They  have  confessed;  they  could  endure  no  more 
The  tortures  — 

BEATRICE. 

Ha  !     What  was  there  to  confess  ? 
They  must  have  told  some  weak  and  wicked  lie 
To  flatter  their  tormentors.     Have  they  said 
That  they  were  guilty  ?     O  -white  innocence. 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  the  mask  of  guilt  to  hide 
Thine  awful  and  serenest  countenance 
From  those  who  know  thee  not ! 

Enter  JUDGE,  xoith  LUCRETIA  and  GIACOMO,  guarded. 

Ignoble  hearts ! 
For  some  brief  spasms  of  pain,  which  are  at  least 
As  mortal  as  the  limbs  through  which  they  pass. 
Are  centuries  of  high  splendor  laid  in  dust  ? 
And  that  eternal  honor  which  should  live 
Sunlike,  above  the  reek  of  mortal  fame. 
Changed  to  a  mockery  and  a  by-w^ord  ?     What ! 
Will  you  give  up  these  bodies  to  be  dragged 
At  horses'  heels,  so  that  our  hair  should  sweep 
The  footsteps  of  the  vain  and  sen-seless  crowd, 
Who,  that  they  may  make  our  calamity 


378  THE    CENCI. 

Their  worship  and  their  spectacle,  will  leave 

The  churches  and  the  theatres  as  void 

As  their  own  hearts  ?     Shall  the  light  multitude 

Fling,  at  their  choice,  curses  or  faded  pity, 

Sad  funeral  flowers  to  deck  a  living  corpse, 

Upon  us  as  we  pass  to  pass  away. 

And  leave  —  what  memory  of  our  having  been  ? 

Infamy,  blood,  terror,  despair  ?     O  thou, 

Who  wert  a  mother  to  the  parentless, 

Kill  not  thy  child  !     Let  not  her  wrongs  kill  thee ! 

Brother  lie  down  with  me  upon  the  rack. 

And  let  us  each  be  silent  as  a  corpse; 

It  soon  will  be  soft  as  any  grave. 

'Tis  but  the  falsehood  it  can  wring  from  fear 

Makes  the  rack  cruel. 

GIACOMO. 

They  will  tear  the  truth 
Even  from  thee  at  last,  those  cruel  pains  : 
For  pity's  sake  say  thou  art  guilty  now. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  speak  the  truth  !  Let  us  all  quickly  die ; 
And  after  death,  God  is  our  judge,  not  they  ; 
He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 

BERNARDO. 

If  indeed 
It  can  be  true,  say  so,  dear  sister  mine ; 
And  then  the  pope  will  surely  pardon  you. 
And  all  be  well. 

JUDGE. 

Confess,  or  I  will  warp 
Your  limbs  with  such  keen  tortures ^- 

BEATRICE. 

Tortures !     Turn 
The  rack  henceforth  into  a  spinning-wheel ! 
Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when  last 
He  lapped  the  blood  his  master  shed  —  not  me  ! 
My  pangs  are  of  the  mind,  and  of  the  heart. 
And  of  the  soul ;  ay,  of  the  inmost  soul, 
Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning  gall 
To  see,  in  this  ill  world  where  none  are  true. 
My  kindred  false  to  their  deserted  selves. 
And  with  considering  all  the  wretched  life 
Which  I  have  lived,  and  its  now  wretched  end. 
And  the  small  justice  shown  by  heaven  and  earth 
To  me  or  mine  ;  and  what  a  tyrant  thou  art. 
And  what  slaves  these  ;  and  what  a  world  we  make, 
The  oppressor  and  the  oppressed  —  such  pangs  compel 
My  answer.    What  is  it  thou  wouldst  with  me  ? 

JUDGE. 

Art  thou  not  guilty  of  thy  father's  death  ? 


•      THE    CENCI.  379 

BEATRICE. 

Or  wilt  thou  rather  tax  high-judging  God 

That  he  permitted  such  an  act  as  that 

Which  I  have  suffered,  and  which  he  beheld : 

Made  it  unutterable,  and  took  from  it 

All  refuge,  all  revenge,  all  consequence, 

But  that  which  thou  hast  called  my  father's  death  ? 

Which  is  or  is  not  what  men  call  a  crime, 

Which  either  I  have  done,  or  have  not  done  ; 

Say  what  ye  will.     I  shall  deny  no  more. 

If  ye  desire  it  thus,  thus  let  it  be, 

And  so  an  end  of  all.     Now  do  your  will ; 

No  other  pains  shall  force  another  w^ord. 

JUDGK. 

She  is  convicted,  but  has  not  confes.sed. 

Be  it  enough.     Until  their  final  sentence 

Let  none  have  converse  with  them.     You,  young  lord, 

Linger  not  here ! 

BEATRICE. 

O,  tear  him  not  away  ! 

JUDGE. 

Guards !  do  your  duty. 

BERNARDO  (emhiar/mg  Beatrice). 

Oh  !  would  ye  divide 
Body  from  soul  ? 

officer. 
That  is  the  headsman's  business. 
[Exeunt  all  bid  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo. 

GIACOMO. 

Have  I  confessed  ?     Is  it  all  over  now  ? 

No  hope  !     No  refuge  !     O  weak  wicked  tongue, 

Whicli  hast  destroyed  me,  would  that  thou  had.st  been 

Cut  out  and  thrown  to  dogs  tirst!     To  have  killed 

My  father  first,  and  then  betrayed  my  sister ; 

Ay.  thee  !  tlie  one  thing  innocent  and  jiure 

In  this  black,  guilty  world,  to  that  whicli  I 

So  well  deserve  !     My  wife  !  my  little  ones ! 

Destitute,  helpless  ;  and  I — Father!  God! 

Canst  thou  forgive  even  the  unforgiving, 

When  their  full  hearts  break  thus,  thus?  — 

[Covers  his  face  and  iree//s:. 


lucretia. 


To  what  a  dreadful  end  are  we  all  come ! 
Why  did  I  yield  ?     Why  did  1  not  sustain 
Those  torments?     Oh!  that  1  were  all  dis.solved 
Into  these  fast  aud  unavailing  tears. 
Which  How  and  fool  not! 


O,  my  child ! 


380  THE    CENCI. 


What  'twas  weak  to  do. 
'Tis  weaker  to  lament,  once  being  done  ; 
Take  cheer  !     The  God  who  knew  my  wrong,  and  made 
Our  speedy  act  the  angel  of  his  w^rath, 
Seems,  and  but  seems,  to  have  abandoned  us. 
Let  us  not  think  that  we  shall  die  for  this. 
Brother,  .sit  near  me  ;  give  me  your  firm  hand  — 
You  bad  a  manly  heart.     Bear  up  !  bear  up  ! 
Oh  !  dearest  lady,  put  your  gentle  head 
Upon  my  lap,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile  : 
Your  eyes  look  pale,  hollow  and  overworn, 
With  heaviness  of  watching  and  slow  grief. 
Come,  I  will  sing  you  some  low.  .sleepy  tune, 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad  :  some  dull  old  thing, 
Some  outworn  and  unused  monotony. 
Such  as  our  country  gossips  sing  and  spin. 
Till  they  almost  forget  they  live  :  lie  down  ! 
So,  that  will  do.     Have  I  forgot  the  words  ? 
Faith  !  they  are  sadder  than  I  thought  they  w^ere  : 

SONG. 

False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  w^eep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  1 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear. 
The  clay-cold  corpse  upon  the  bier ! 

Farewell !  Heigh  ho  ! 

"VS^'hat  is  this  whispers  low  ? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear  ; 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  sleep  !  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 
I  would  close  the.se  eyes  of  pain  ; 
When  to  wake  ?  Never  again  ! 

O  world  !  farewell ! 

Listen  to  the  pa.ssing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part. 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heai't !      [  The  scene  closes. 


SCENE  IV. 
A  Hall  of  the  Prison. 

Enter  CAMILLO  and  BERNARDO. 
CAMILLO. 

The  pope  is  stern  :  not  to  be  moved  or  bent. 
He  looked  as  calm  and  keen  as  is  the  engine 
Which  tortures  and  which  kills,  exempt  itself 
From  aught  tliat  it  iniiicts;  a  marble  form, 
A  rite,  a  law^,  a  custom  —  not  a  man. 


THE     CENCT.  381 

He  frowned,  as  if  to  frown  had  been  the  trick 

Of  his  machinery,  on  the  advocates 

Presenting  the  defences,  which  he  tore 

And  threw^  behind,  muttering  w^ith  lioarse,  harsh  voice  : 

••  Which  among  ye  defended  their  old  father 

Killed  in  his  sleep  ?"     Then  to  another  :  "  Thou 

Dost  this  in  virtue  of  thy  place  ;  'tis  well." 

He  turned  to  me  then,  looking  deprecation, 

And  said  these  three  words  coldly  :  "  They  must  die." 

BERNARDO. 

And  yet  you  left  him  not  ? 

CAMILLO. 

I  urged  him  still ; 
Pleading,  as  I  could  guess,  the  devilish  wrong 
Which  prompted  your  unnatural  parent's  death. 
And  he  replied,  "  Paolo  Santa  Croce 
Murdered  his  mother  yester  evening, 
And  he  is  fled.     Parricide  grows  so  rife 
That  soon,  for  some  just  cause  no  doubt,  the  young 
Will  strangle  us  all,  dozing  in  our  chairs. 
Authority  and  pow^er  and  hoary  hair 
Are  grown  crimes  capital.     You  are  my  nephew — 
You  come  to  ask  their  pardon  ;  stay  a  moment : 
Here  is  their  sentence  -,  never  see  me  more 
Till,  to  the  letter,  it  be  all  fulfilled." 

BERNARDO. 

O,  God,  not  so  !     1  did  believe  indeed 

That  all  you  said  was  but  sad  preparation 

For  happy  news.     O,  there  are  words  and  looks 

To  bend  the  sternest  purpose  !    Once  I  knew  them, 

Now  I  forget  them  at  my  dearest  need. 

What  think  you  if  I  seek  him  out,  and  bathe 

His  feet  and  robe  with  hot  and  bitter  tears  ? 

Importune  him  with  prayers,  vexing  his  brain 

With  my  perpetual  cries,  until  in  rage 

He  strike  me  with  his  pastoral  cros.s,  and  trample 

Upon  my  prostrate  head,  so  that  my  blood 

May  stam  the  senseless  dust  on  which  he  treads, 

And  remorse  waken  mercy  ?     I  will  do  it ! 

O.  wait  till  I  return  !  [Rushes  out. 

CAMILLO. 

Alas  !  poor  boy  ! 
A  wreck-devoted  seaman  thus  might  pray 
To  the  deaf  sea. 

Enter  LUCRETIA,  BEATRICE,  and  GIACOMO,  guarded. 
BEATRICE. 

I  hardly  dare  to  fear 
That  thou  bring'st  other  news  than  a  just  pardon. 


382  THE    CENCI. 


CAMILLO. 


May  God  in  heaven  be  less  inexorable 

To  the  pope's  prayers,  than  he  has  been  to  mine! 

Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 

BEATRICE  (wildly). 

Oh, 
My  God  !  Can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  ?    So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground ! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place  ; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine  ;  hear  no  more 
Blithe  voice  of  living  thing ;  muse  not  again 
Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad.  yet  thus  lost ! 
How  fearful !  to  be  nothing  !    Or  to  be  — 
What  ?    O,  where  am  I  ?    Let  me  not  go  mad  ! 
Sweet  Heaven,  forgive  weak  thoughts  !  If  there  should  be 
No  God,  no  heaven,  no  earth  in  the  void  world ; 
The  wide,  gray,  lampless.  deep,  unpeopled  world  ! 
If  all  things  then  should  be  —  my  father's  spirit, 
His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding  me  : 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  ray  dead  life  ! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  himself. 
Even  the  form  which  tortured  me  on  earth, 
Masked  in  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles,  he  should  come 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,  and  fix 
His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down,  down,  down  ! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  earth,  and  ever  present  ?  even  though  dead. 
Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe. 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same  ruin, 
Scorn,  pain,  despair  ?    //Who  ever  yet  returned 
To  teach  the  laws  of  Death's  untrodden  realm?  n 
Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us  now, 
O,  whither,  whither  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 
The  tender  promises  of  Christ :  ere  night 
Think  we  shall  be  in  paradise. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  past! 
Whatever  comes,  my  heart  shall  sink  no  more. 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  your  words  strike  chill : 
How  tedious,  false  and  cold  seem  all  things ! 
Have  met  with  much  injustice  in  this  world  ; 
No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or  man, 
Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'  T w^ixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me. 
I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know,  |; 
From  light  and  life  and  love,  in  youth's  sweet  prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God  : 


THE    CENCI.  383 

I  hope  I  do  trast  in  him.     In  whom  else 
Can  any  trust  ?     And  yet  my  heart  is  cold. 

[During  the  latter  speeches  Giacomo  has  retired  conversing 
with  Camillo,  who  now  goes  out ;  Giacomo  advances. 

GIACOMO. 

Know  you  not,  mother — sister,  know  you  not  ? 
Bernardo  even  now  is  gone  to  implore 
The  pope  to  grant  our  pardon. 

LUCRETIA. 

Child,  perhaps 
It  will  be  granted.     We  may  all  then  live 
To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years  : 
O,  what  a  thought !     It  gushes  to  my  heart 
Like  the  warm  blood. 

BEATRICE. 

Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold  : 
O,  trample  out  that  thought !     Worse  than  despair, 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope  : 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp  and  narrow  hour 
Tottering  beneath  us.     Plead  with  the  swift  frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of  spring  : 
Plead  with  awakening  earthquake,  o'er  whose  couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair  and  free  — 
Now  stench  and  blackness  yawns,  like  death.     O,  plead 
With  famine,  or  wind-walking  pestilence. 
Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with  man  ! 
Cruel,  cold,  formal  man  :  righteous  in  words, 
In  deeds  a  Cain.     No,  mother,  we  must  die  : 
Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives ; 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 
And  while  our  murderers  live,  and  hard,  cold  men, 
Smiling  and  slow,  walk  through  a  world  of  tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleep  ;  'twere  just  the  grave 
Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.     Come,  obscure  Death, 
And  wind  me  in  thine  all  embracing  arms  ! 
Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom, 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none  wake. 
Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 
As  we  were  once,  who  now  — 

BERNARDO  rushes  in. 
BERNARDO. 

Oh.  horrible ! 
That  tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  poured  forth  in  prayer. 
Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs. 
Should  all  be  vain  !     The  ministers  of  death 
Are  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought  I  saw 
Blood  on  the  face  of  one — what  if  'twere  fancy  ? 
Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on  earth 
Will  sprinkle  him,  and  he  will  wipe  it  off 
As  if  'twere  only  rain.     O  lilie  !  O  world  ! 


384  THK    CENCI. 

Cover  me  !  let  me  be  no  more  !    To  see 

That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence 

Wherein  I  gazed,  and  grew  happy  and  good, 

Shivered  to  dust !     To  see  thee,  Beatrice, 

Who  made  all  lovely  thou  didst  look  upon  — 

Thee,  light  of  life  —  dead,  dark  !  while  I  say,  "  Sister," 

To  hear  I  have  no  sister ;  and  thou,  mother, 

Whose  love  was  a  bond  to  all  our  loves  — 

Dead  !  the  sweet  bond  broken  ! 

Enter  CAMILLO  and  Guards. 

They  come  !    Let  me 
Kiss  those  w^arm  lips  before  their  crimson  leaves 
Are  blighted  —  white  —  cold.     Say  farew^ell.  before 
Death  chokes  that  gentle  voice  !    O  let  me  hear 
You  speak ! 

BEATRICE. 

Farewell,  my  tender  brother !     Think 
Of  our  sad  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now^ : 
And  let  mild,  pitying  thoughts  lighten  for  thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  harsh  despair. 
But  tears  and  patience.     One  thing  more,  my  child  : 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  love 
Thou  bearest  us  ;  and  to  the  faith  that  I, 

''  Though  wrapped  in  a  strange  cloud  of  crime  and  shame, 
Lived  ever  holy  and  unstained.  «  And  though 
111  tongues  shall  vi'ound  me,  and  our  common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stamped  on  thine  innocent  brow 
For  men  to  point  at  as  they  pass,  do  thou 
Forbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 
Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their  graves. 

i|  So  may  est  thou  die  as  I  do  :  fear  and  pain 
Being  subdued,  i  Farewell !    Farewell!    Farewell! 

BERNARDO. 

I  can  not  say  farewell  I 

CAMILLO. 

O,  Lady  Beatrice ! 

BEATRICE. 

Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain, 

My  dear  lord  cardinal.     Here,  mother,  tie 

My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 

In  any  simple  knot :  ay,  that  does  well. 

And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.     How  often 

Have  we  done  this  for  one  another  !  —  now 

We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  lord, 

We  are  quite  ready.    Well,  'tis  very  well. 


END   OF   THE  CENCI. 


NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI 


BY   MRS.    SHELLEY. 


The  sort  of  mistake  that  Shelley  made,  as  to  the  extent  of  his  own 
genius  and  powers,  which  led  him  deviously  at  first,  but  lastly  into  the 
direct  track  that  enabled  him  fully  to  develop  tfiem,  is  a  curious  in- 
stance of  his  modesty  of  feeling,  and  of  the  methods  which  the  human 
mind  uses  at  once  to  deceive  itself,  and  yet,  in  its  very  delusion,  to 
make  its  way  out  of  error  into  the  path  which  nature  has  marked  out 
as  its  right  one.  He  often  incited  me  to  attempt  the  writing  a  tragedy  : 
he  conceived  that  I  possessed  some  dramatic  talent,  and  he  was  al- 
ways most  earnest  and  energetic  in  his  exhortations  that  I  should  cul- 
tivate any  talent  I  possessed,  to  the  utmost.  I  entertained  a  truer 
estimate  of  my  powers  ;  and  above  all,  though  at  that  time  not  exactly 
aware  of  the  (act,  I  was  far  too  young  to  have  any  chance  of  succeed- 
ing, even  moderately,  in  a  species  of  coinposition  that  requires  a 
greater  scope  of  experience  in  and  sympathy  with  human  passion  than 
could  then  have  fallen  to  my  lot,  or  than  any,  perhaps,  except  Shelley, 
ever  possessed,  even  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  at  which  he  wrote  '  The 
Cenci.' 

On  the  other  hand,  Shelley  most  erroneously  conceived  himself  to 
De  destitute  of  this  talent.  He  believed  that  one  of  the  first  requisites 
was  the  capacity  of  forming  and  following  up  a  story  or  plot.  He  fan- 
cied himself  to  be  defective  in  this  portion  of  imagination — it  was 
that  which  gave  him  least  pleasure  in  the  writings  of  others  —  though 
he  laid  great  store  by  it,  as  the  proper  framework  to  support  the  sub- 
limest  etforts  of  poetry.  He  asserted  that  he  was  too  metaphysical 
and  abstract  —  too  fond  of  the  theoretical  and  the  ideal  —  to  succeed  as 
a  tragedian.  It  perhaps  is  not  strange  that  I  shared  this  opinion  with 
himself,  for  he  had  hitherto  shown  no  inclination  for,  nor  given  any 
specimen  of  his  powers  in  framing  and  supporting  the  interest  of  a 
story  either  in  prose  or  verse.  Once  or  twice,  when  he  attempted 
such,  he  had  speedily  thrown  it  aside,  as  being  even  disagreeable  to 
him  as  an  occupation. 

The  subject  he  had  suggested  for  a  tragedy  was  Charles  I.,  and  he 
had  written  to  me,  "  Remember,  remember  Charles  1.  I  have  been 
already  imagining  how  you  would  conduct  some  scenes.  The  second 
volume  of  St.  Leon  begins  with  tiiis  proud  and  true  sentiment :  '  There 
is  nothing  which  the  human  mind  can  conceive  which  it  may  not  ex- 
ecute.' Shakspeare  was  only  a  human  being."  These  words  were 
written  in  181b,  while  we  were  in  Lombardy,  when  he  little  thought 
25 


386  NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 

how  soon  a  work  of  his  own  would  prove  a  proud  comment,  on  the 
passage  he  quoted.  When  in  Rome,  in  1819,  a  friend  put  into  our 
hands  the  old  manuscript  account  of  the  story  of  'The  Cenci.'  We 
visited  the  Colonna  and  Doria  palaces,  where  the  portraits  of  Beatrice 
were  to  be  found,  and  her  beauty  cast  the  reflection  of  its  own  grace 
over  her  appalling  story.  Shelley's  imagination  became  strongly  ex- 
cited, and  he  urged  the  subject  to  me  as  one  fitted  for  a  tragedy. 
More  than  ever  I  felt  my  incompetence  ;  but  I  entreated  him  to  write 
it  instead  ;  and  he  began  and  proceeded  swiftly,  urged  on  by  intense 
sympathy  with  the  sufferings  of  the  human  beings  whose  passions,  so 
long  cold  in  the  tomb,  he  revived  and  gifted  witii  poetic  language. 
This  tragedy  is  the  only  one  of  his  works  that  he  communicated  to 
me  during  its  progress.  We  talked  over  the  arrangement  of  the  scenes 
together.  I  speedily  saw  the  great  mistake  we  had  made,  and  tri- 
umphed in  the  discovery  of  the  new  talent  brought  to  light  from  that 
mine  of  wealth,  never,  alas  '  through  his  untimely  death,  worked  to 
its  depths  — his  richly-gifted  mind. 

We  suffered  a  severe  affliction  in  Rome  by  the  loss  of  our  eldest 
child,  who  was  of  such  beauty  and  promise  as  to  cause  him  deservedly 
to  be  the  idol  of  our  hearts.  We  left  the  capital  of  the  world,  anxious 
for  a  time  to  escape  a  spot  associated  too  intimately  with  his  presence 
and  loss.*  Some  friends  of  ours  were  residing  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Leghorn,  and  we  took  a  small  house,  Villa  Valsovano,  about  half 
way  between  the  town  and  Monte  Nero,  where  we  remained  during 
the  summer.  Our  villa  was  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  podere  ;  the 
peasants  sang  as  they  worked  beneath  our  windows,  during  the  heats 
of  a  very  hot  season,  and  at  night  the  water-wheel  creaked  as  the 
process  of  irrigation  went  on,  and  the  fireflies  flashed  from  among  the 
niyrtle-hedges  ;  nature  was  bright,  sunshiny  and  cheerful,  or  diversi- 
fied by  storms  of  a  majestic  terror,  such  as  we  had  never  before  wit- 
nessed. 

At  the  top  of  the  house  there  was  a  sort  of  terrace.  There  is  often 
such  in  Italy,  generally  roofed.  This  one  was  very  small,  yet  not  only 
roofed  but  glazed  ;  this  Shelley  made  his  study  ;  it  looked  out  on  a 
wide  prospect  of  fertile  country,  and  commanded  a  view  of  the  near 
sea.  The  storms  that  sometimes  varied  our  day  showed  themselves 
most  picturesquely  as  they  were  driven  across  the  ocean  ;  sometimes 
the  dark  lurid  clouds  dipped  toward  the  waves,  and  became  water- 
spouts, that  churned  up  the  waters  beneath,  as  they  were  chased  on- 
ward and  scattered  by  the  tempest.  At  other  times  the  dazzling  sun- 
light and  heat  made  it  almost  intolerable  to  every  other  ;  but  Shelley 
basked  in  both,  and  his  health  and  spirits  revived  under  their  influ- 
ence. In  this  airy  cell  be  wrote  the  principal  part  of  '  The  Cenci.'  He 
was  making  a  study  of  Calderon  at  the  time,  reading  his  best  trage- 
dies s%ith  an  accomplished  lady  living  near  us,  to  whom  his  letter 
from  Leghorn  was  addressed  during  the  following  year.  He  admired 
Calderon,  both  for  his  poetry  and  his  dramatic  genius  ;  but  it  shows 
his  judgement  and  originality,  that,  though  greatly  struck  by  his  first 
acquaintance  with  the  Spanish  poet,  none  of  his  pecuUarities  crept 
into  the  composition  of '  The  Cenci ;'  and  there  is  no  trace  of  his  new 
studies  except  in  that  passage  to  which  he  himself  alludes,  as  suggest- 
ed by  one  ia '  El  Purgatorio  de  San  Patricio.' 

*  SacL  feelings  haunted  him,  when,  in  '  The  Cenci,'  he  makes  Beatrice  speak  to  Car- 
dinal Camillo  of 

"  that  fair  blue  eyed  child, 
Who  was  the  lodestar  of  your  hfe." 


And  say  - 


"  AH  see,  since  his  most  piteous  death, 
That  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth,  and  time, 
And  all  things  hoped  for,  or  done  therein. 
Are  changed  to  you,  through  your  i-xcceding  grief." 


NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 


387 


Shelley  wished  '  The  Cenci'  to  be  acted.  He  was  not  a  play-goer, 
being  of  such  fastidious  taste  that  he  was  easily  disgusted  by  the  bad 
filling  up  of  the  inferior  parts.  While  preparing  for  our  departure  from 
England,  however,  he  saw  Miss  O'Neil  several  times  ;  she  was  then 
in  the  zenith  of  her  glory,  and  Shelley  was  deeply  moved  by  her  im- 
personation of  several  parts,  and  by  the  graceful  sweetness,  the  in- 
tense pathos  and  sublime  vehemence  of  passion  she  displayed.  She 
was  often  in  his  thoughts  as  lie  wrote,  and  when  he  had  finished  he 
became  anxious  that  bis  tragedy  should  be  acted,  and  receive  the 
advantage  of  having  this  accomplished  actress  to  fill  the  part  of  the 
heroine.  With  this  view  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  a  friend  in 
London : 

"  The  object  of  the  present  letter  is  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  I  have 
written  a  tragedy  on  a  story  well  known  in  Italy,  and,  in  my  concep- 
tion, eminently  dramatic.  I  have  taken  some  pains  to  make  my  play 
fit  for  representation,  and  those  who  have  already  seen  it  judge  favor- 
ably. It  is  written  without  any  of  the  peculiar  feelings  and  opinions 
which  characterize  my  other  compositions—  I  having  attended  simply 
to  the  impartial  development  of  such  characters  as  it  is  probable  the 
persons  represented  really  were,  together  with  the  greatest  degree 
of  popular  effect  to  be  produced  by  such  a  development.  I  send  you 
a  translation  of  the  Italian  MS.  on  which  my  play  is  founded  —  the 
chief  circumstance  of  which  I  have  touched  very  delicately  :  for  my 
principal  doubt  as  to  whether  it  would  succeed,  as  an  acting  play, 
hangs  entirely  on  the  question  as  to  whether  any  such  a  thing  as  in- 
cest in  this  shape,  however  treated,  would  be  admitted  on  the  stage. 
I  think,  however,  it  will  form  no  objection,  considering,  first,  that  the 
facts  are  matter  of  history,  and,  secondly,  the  peculiar  dehcacy  with 
which  I  have  treated  it. 

"  I  am  exceedingly  interested  in  the  question  of  whether  this  at- 
tempt of  mine  will  succeed  or  no.  1  am  strongly  inclined  to  the  affirm- 
ative at  present  —  founding  my  hopes  on  this,  that  as  a  composition 
it  is  certainly  not  inferior  to  any  of  the  modern  plays  that  have  been 
acted,  with  the  exception  of  'Remorse,'  that  the  interest  of  the  plot 
is  incredibly  greater  and  more  real,  and  that  there  is  nothing  beyond 
what  the  multitude  are  contented  to  believe  that  they  can  understand, 
either  in  imagery,  opinion  or  sentiment.  I  wish  to  preserve  a  com- 
plete incognito,  and  can  trust  to  you  that,  whatever  else  you  do,  you 
will  at  least  favor  me  on  this  point.  Indeed  this  is  essential,  deeply 
essential  to  its  success.  After  it  had  been  acted  and  successfully 
(could  I  hope  such  a  thing),  I  would  own  it  if  I  pleased,  and  use  the 
celebrity  it  might  acquire  to  my  own  purposes. 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do  is.  to  procure  for  me  its  presentation  at 
Covent  Garden.  The  principal  character,  Beatrice,  is  precisely  fitted 
for  Miss  O'Neil,  and  it  might  even  seem  to  have  been  written  for  her 
(God  forbid  that  I  should  see  her  play  it  —  it  would  tear  my  nerves  to 
pieces),  and  in  all  respects  it  is  fitted  only  for  Covent  Garden.  The 
chief  male  character  I  confess  I  should  be  very  unwilling  that  any  one 
but  Kean  should  play:  that  is  impossible,  and  I  must  be  contented 
with  an  inferior  actor." 

The  play  was  accordingly  sent  to  Mr.  Harris.  He  pronounced  the 
subject  to  be  so  objectionable  that  he  could  not  even  submit  the  part 
to  IVIiss  O'Neil  for  perusal,  but  expressed  his  desire  that  the  author 
would  write  a  tragedy  on  some  other  subject,  which  he  would  gladly 
accept.  Shelley  printed  a  small  edition  at  Leghorn  to  insure  its  cor- 
rectness ;  as  he  was  much  annoyed  by  the  many  mistakes  that  crept 
into  his  text,  when  distance  prevented  him  from  correcting  the  press. 

Universal  approbation  soon  stamped  '  The  Cenci'  as  the  best  trage- 
dy of  modern  times  Writing  concerning  it,  Shelley  said,  "  I  have 
been  cautious  to  avoid  the  introducing  faults  of  youthful  composition  — 
diffuseness,  a  profusion  of  inapplicable  imagery,  vagueness,  generality. 


388  NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 

and,  as  Hamlet  says,  words,  words."  There  is  nothing  that  is  not  purely 
dramatic  throughout  ,•  and  the  character  of  Beatrice,  proceeding  from 
vehement  struggle  to  horror,  to  deadly  resolution,  and  lastly  to  the 
elevated  dignity  of  calm  suffering,  joined  to  passionate  tenderness  and 
pathos,  is  touched  with  hues  so  vivid  and  so  beautiful,  that  the  poet 
seems  to  have  read  intimately  the  secrets  of  the  noble  heart  imaged 
in  the  lovely  countenance  of  the  unfortunate  girl.  The  fifth  act  is  a 
masterpiece.  It  is  the  finest  thing  he  ever  wrote,  and  may  claim 
proud  comparison,  not  only  with  any  cotemporary,  but  preceding  poet. 
The  varying  feelings  of  Beatrice  are  expressed  with  passionate,  heart- 
reaching  eloquence.  Every  character  has  a  voice  liiat  echoes  truth  in 
its  tones.  It  is  curious,  to  one  acquainted  with  the  written  story,  to 
mark  the  success  with  which  the  poet  has  inwoven  the  real  incidents 
of  the  tragedy  into  his  scenes,  and  yet,  through  the  power  of  poetry, 
has  obliterated  all  that  would  otherwise  have  shown  too  harsh  or  too 
hideous  in  the  picture.  His  success  was  a  double  triumph  ;  and  often 
after  was  he  earnestly  entreated  to  write  again  in  a  style  that,  com- 
manded popular  favor,  while  it  was  not  less  instinct  with  truth  and 
genius.  But  the  bent  of  his  mind  went  the  other  way;  and  even 
when  employed  on  subjects  whose  interest  depended  on  character 
and  incident,  he  would  start  off  in  another  direction,  and  leave  the 
delineation  of  human  passion,  which  he  could  depict  in  so  able  a  man- 
ner, for  fantastic  creations  of  his  fancy,  or  the  expression  of  those 
opinions  and  sentiments  with  regard  to  human  nature  and  its  destiny  : 
a  desire  to  diffuse  which,  was  the  master  passion  of  his  soul. 


HELLAS. 

Hgrical  3irama. 


MANTIE  EIM'  EEGAQN   Ar^NflN. 

CEdip.  Colon. 


PREFACE 


The  poem  of  *  Hellas,'  written  at  the  suggestion  of  the  events  of 
the  moment,  is  a  mere  improvise,  and  derives  its  interest  (should  it 
be  found  to  possess  any)  solely  from  the  intense  sympathy  which  the 
author  feels  with  the  cause  he  would  celebrate. 

The  subject,  in  its  present  state,  is  insusceptible  of  being  treated 
otherwise  tlian  lyrically ;  and  if  I  have  called  this  poem  a  drama  from 
the  circumstance  of  its  being  composed  in  dialogue,  the  license  is  not 
greater  tiian  that  which  has  been  assumed  by  other  poets,  who  have 
called  their  productions  epics,  only  because  they  have  been  divided 
into  twelve  or  twenty-four  books. 

The  '  Persffi'  of  ^schylus  afforded  me  the  first  model  of  my  concep- 
tion, although  the  decision  of  the  glorious  contest  now  waging  in 
Greece  being  yet  suspended,  forbids  a  catastrophe  parallel  to  the  re- 
turn of  Xerxes  and  the  desolation  of  the  Persians.  I  have  therefore 
contented  myself  with  exhibiting  a  series  of  lyric  pictures,  and  with 
having  wrought  upon  the  curtain  of  futurity,  which  falls  upon  the  un- 
finished scene,  such  figures  of  indistinct  and  visionary  delineation  as 
suggest  the  final  triumph  of  the  Greek  cause  as  a  portion  of  the  cause 
of  civilization  and  social  improvement. 

The  drama  (if  drama  it  must  be  called)  is,  however,  so  inartificial 
that  1  doubt  whether,  if  recited  on  the  Thespian  wagon  to  an  Athe- 
nian village  at  the  Dyonisiaca,  it  would  have  obtained  the  prize  of  the 
goat.  I  shall  bear  with  equanimity  any  punishment  greater  than  the 
loss  of  such  a  reward  which  the  Aristarchi  of  the  hour  may  think  fit  to 
inflict. 

The  only  goat-song  which  I  have  yet  attempted  has,  I  confess,  in 
spite  of  the  unfavorable  nature  of  the  subject,  received  a  greater 
and  a  more  valuable  portion  of  applause  than  I  expected,  or  than  it 
deserved. 

Common  fame  is  the  only  authority  which  I  can  alledge  for  the  de- 
tails which  form  the  basis  of  the  poem,  and  1  must  trespass  upon 
the  forgiveness  of  my  readers  for  the  display  of  newspaper  erudition 
to  which  I  have  been  reduced.  Undoubtedly,  until  the  conclusion 
of  the  war,  it  will  be  impossible  to  obtain  an  account  of  it  suffi- 
ciently authentic  for  historical  materials  ;  but  poets  have  their  privi- 
lege, and  it  is  unquestionable  that  actions  of  the  mo.st  exalted  cour- 
age have  been  performed  by  the  Greeks  —  that  they  have  gained 
more  than  one  naval  victory  —  and  tiiat  their  defeat  in  Wallachia 
was  signalized  by  circumstances  of  heroism  more  glorious  even  than 
victory. 

The  apathy  of  the  rulers  of  the  civilized  world,  to  the  astonishing 


392  PREFACE. 

circumstance  of  the  descendants  of  that  nation  to  which  they  owe 
their  civilization — rising  as  it  were  from  the  ashes  of  their  ruin  —  is 
something  perfectly  inexplicable  to  a  mere  spectator  of  the  shows  of 
this  mortal  scene.  We  are  all  Greeks.  Our  laws,  our  literature,  our 
religion,  our  arts,  have  their  root  in  Greece.  But  for  Greece  —  Rome 
the  instructor,  the  conqueror,  or  the  metropolis  of  our  ancestors, 
would  have  spread  no  illumination  with  her  arms,  and  we  might  still 
have  been  savages  and  idolators  ;  or,  what  is  worse,  might  have  ar- 
rived at  such  a  stagnant  and  miserable  state  of  social  institutions  as 
China  and  Japan  possess. 

The  human  form  and  the  human  mind  attained  to  a  perfection  in 
Gieece  which  has  impressed  its  image  on  those  faultless  productions 
whose  very  fragments  are  the  despair  of  modern  art,  and  has  pr6pa- 
gated  impulses  which  can  not  cease,  through  a  thousand  channels  of 
manifest  or  imperceptible  operation,  to  ennoble  and  delight  mankind 
uniil  the  extinction  of  the  race. 

The  modern  Greek  is  the  descendant  of  those  glorious  beings  whom 
the  imagination  almost  refuses  to  figure  to  itself  as  belonging  to  our 
kind  ;  and  he  inherits  much  of  their  sensibility,  their  rapidity  of  con- 
ception, their  enthusiasm  and  their  courage.  If  in  many  instances  he 
is  degraded  by  moral  and  political  slavery  to  the  practice  of  the  basest 
vices  it  engenders,  and  that  below  the  level  of  ordinary  degradation  — 
let  us  reflect  that  the  corruption  of  the  best  produces  the  worst,  and 
that  habits  which  subsist  only  in  relation  to  a  peculiar  state  of  social 
inslitulion  may  be  expected  to  cease  as  soon  as  that  relation  is  dis- 
solved. In  fact,  the  Greeks,  since  the  admirable  novel  of  '  Anasta- 
tius'  could  have  been  a  faithful  picture  of  their  manners,  have  under- 
gone most  important  changes  :  the  flower  of  their  youth,  returning  to 
their  country  from  the  universities  of  Italy,  Germany  and  France,  have 
communicated  to  their  fellow-citizens  the  latest  results  of  that  social 
perfection  of  which  their  ancestors  were  the  original  source.  The 
■university  of  Chios  contained,  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  revolu- 
tion, eight  hundred  students,  and  among  them  several  Germans 
and  Americans.  The  munificence  and  energy  of  many  of  the  Greek 
princes  and  merchants,  directed  to  the  renovation  of  their  country 
with  a  spirit  and  a  wisdom  which  has  few  examples,  is  above  all 
praise. 

The  English  permit  their  own  oppressors  to  act  according  to  their 
natural  sympathy  with  the  Turkish  tyrant,  and  to  brand  upon  their 
name  the  indelible  blot  of  an  alliance  with  the  enemies  of  domestic 
happiness,  of  Christianity  and  civilization. 

Russia  desires  to  possess,  not  to  liberate  Greece  ;  and  is  contented 
to  see  the  Turks,  its  natural  enemies,  and  the  Greeks,  its  intended 
slaves,  enfeeble  each  other,  until  one  or  both  fall  into  its  net.  The 
wise  and  generous  policy  of  England  would  have  consisted  in  estab- 
lishing the  independence  of  Greece,  and  in  maintaining  it  both 
against  Russia  and  the  Turks  :  but  when  was  the  oppressor  generous 
or  just  ? 

The  Spanish  peninsula  is  already  free.  France  is  tranquil  in  the 
enjoyment  of  a  partial  exemption  from  the  abuses  which  its  unnatural 
and  feeble  government  are  vainly  attempting  to  revive.  The  seed 
of  blood  and  misery  has  been  sown  in  Italy,  and  a  more  vigorous  race 
is  arising  to  go  forth  to  the  harvest.  The  world  waits  only  the 
news  of  a  revolution  of  Germany,  to  see  the  tyrants  who  have  pinna- 
cled themselves  on  its  supineness,  precipitated  into  the  ruin  from 
which  they  shall  never  arise.  Well  do  these  destroyers  of  mankind 
know  their  enemy,  when  they  impute  the  insurrection  in  Greece  to 
the  same  spirit  before  which  they  tremble  throughout  the  rest  of 
Europe  ;  and  that  enemy  well  knows  the  power  and  cunning  of  its 
opponents,  and  watches  the  moment  of  their  approaching  weakness 
and  inevitable  division,  to  wrest  the  bloody  sceptres  from  their  grasp. 


TO 

HIS   EXCELLENCY 

PRINCE  ALEXANDER  MAVROCORDATO, 

LATE    SECRETARY    KOR    FOREIGN    AFFAIRS    TO     THE     HOSPODAR    OF 
WALLACHIA, 

THE   DRAMA   OF  HELLAS 

IS    INSCRIBED, 

AS    AN   IMPERFECT   TOKEN   OF   THE   ADMIRATION, 
SYMPATHY   AND   FRIENDSHIP 


THE  AUTHOR. 

Pisa,  November  1,  1831 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Mahmud.  Daood, 

Hassan.  Ahasuerus,  a  Jew. 

Chorus  of  Greek  captive  Women. 

Messengers,  Slaves,  and  Attendants. 


Scene  —  Constantinople. 
Time  —  Sunset. 


HELLAS. 


Scene,  a  Terrace,  on  the  Seraglio. 

Mahmud  (sleeping),  an  Indian  Slave,  sitting  beside  his 
Couch. 

CHORUS   OF    GREEK   CAPTIVE   WOMEN. 

We  8trew  these  opiate  flowers 

On  thy  restless  pillow  — 
They  were  stripped  from  orient  bowers, 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
Calm  and  deep, 
Like  theirs  who  fell  —  not  ours  who  weep  ! 

INDIAN. 

Away,  unlovely  dreams ! 

Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep  ! 
Be  his,  as  heaven  seems. 
Clear  and  bright  and  deep  ! 
Soft  as  love,  and  calm  as  death. 
Sweet  as  a  summer  night  without  a  breath. 

CHORUS. 

Sleep,  sleep  !  our  song  is  laden 

With  the  soul  of  slumber  ; 
It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden, 
Whose  lover  was  of  the  number 
Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none  may  wake,  where  none  shall  weep. 

INDIAN. 

I  touch  thy  temples  pale  ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee  ! 
And  could  my  prayers  avail, 
All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  J  would  live  to  weep. 
So  thou  might'st  win  one  hour  of  quiet  sleep. 


396  HELLAS. 


Breathe  lo"w,  low, 
The  spell  of  the  mii,'hty  mistress  now  J 
When  Conscience  lulls  her  sated  snake, 
And  tyrants  sleep,  let  Freedom  wake. 
Breathe  low,  low. 
The  words  which,  like  secret  fire,  shall  flow 
Through  the  veins  of  the  frozen  earth  —  low,  low  ! 

SEMICHORUS    1. 

Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not ; 
Hope  may  vanish,  but  can  die  not ; 
Truth  be  vailed,  but  still  it  burneth  ; 
Love  repulsed  —  but  it  returneth  ! 

SEMICHORUS   11. 

Yet  were  life  a  charnel.  where 
Hope  lay  coffined  with  Despair ; 
Yet  were  Truth  a  sacred  lie, 
Love  were  lust  — 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

If  Liberty 
Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  light, 
Hope  its  iris  of  delight. 
Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  w^ear, 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 


In  the  great  morning  of  the  world. 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurled 
The  flag  of  Freedom  over  Chaos. 

Arid  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled. 
Like  vultures  frighted  from  Imaus, 

Before  an  earthquake's  tread. — 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
Freedom's  splendor  burst  and  .shone  : 
Thermopylas  and  Marathon 
Caught,  like  mountains  beacon  lighted, 

The  springing  fire.     The  winged  glory 
On  Philippi  half  alighted, 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
Its  unwearied  w^iugs  could  fan 
The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 
From  age  to  age.  from  man  to  man 

It  lived  ;  and  lit  from  land  to  land 

Florence,  Albion,  Switzerland. 
Then  night  fell ;  and,  as  from  night, 
Reassuming  fiery  flight. 
From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came. 

Against  the  course  of  heaven  and  doom 
A  second  sun  arrayed  in  flame. 

To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume. 


HELLAS.  397 


From  far  Atlantis  its  young  beams 
Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 
France,  with  all  her  san^^uine  steams, 

Hid,  but  quenched  it  not ;  again 

Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  rain 

From  utmost  Germany  to  Spain. 
As  an  eagle  fed  w^ith  morning 
Scorns  the  embattled  tempest's  warning, 
When  she  seeks  her  aerie  hanging 

In  the  mountain-cedar's  hair, 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging 

Of  her  wings  thi'ough  the  w^ild  air, 
Sick  with  famine  —  Freedom,  so 
To  what  of  Greece  reraaiueth  now 
Returns  ;  her  hoary  ruins  glow^ 
Like  orient  mountains  lost  in  day ; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wings 
Her  renovated  nurselings  play, 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave,  where'er  she  flies, 
A  desert  or  a  paradise  : 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

With  the  gifts  of  gladness 
Greece  did  thy  cradle  strew  ; 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

With  the  tears  of  sadness 

Greece  did  thy  shroud  bedew  ; 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

With  an  orphan's  affection 
She  followed  thy  bier  through  time  ! 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

And  at  thy  resurrection 

Reappeareth,  like  thou,  sublime  ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

If  heaven  should  resume  thee, 
To  heaven  shall  her  spirit  ascend  ; 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

If  hell  should  entomb  thee, 

To  hell  shall  her  high  hearts  bend. 

SEMICHORUS    1. 

If  Annihilation  — 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Dust  let  her  glories  be  ; 
And  a  name  and  a  nation 

Be  forgotten,  Freedom,  witii  thee  ! 


398  HELLAS. 

INDIAN. 

His  brow  grows  darker  —  breathe  not  —  move  not ! 
He  starts  —  be  sbudders  :  ye  tbat  love  not, 
With  your  panting  loud  and  fast 
Have  awakened  him  at  last. 

M  AH  MUD  (starting  from  his  sleep). 
Man  the  seraglio -guard  !  make  fast  the  gate. 
What !  from  a  cannonade  of  three  short  hours  ? 
'Tis  false  !  tbat  breach  toward  the  Bosphorus 
Can  not  be  practicable  yet.  —  Who  stirs  ? 
Stand  to  the  match  :  that  when  the  foe  prevails, 
One  spark  may  mix  in  reconciling  ruin 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered  !    Heave  the  tower 
Into  the  gap  —  wrench  off  the  roof. 

Enter  HASSAN. 

Ha!  what! 
The  truth  of  day  lightens  upon  my  dream, 
And  I  am  Mahmud  still. 

HASSAN. 

Your  sublime  highness 
Is  strangely  moved. 

MAHMUD. 

The  times  do  cast  strange  shadows 
On  those  who  watch  and  who  must  rule  their  course. 
Lest  they,  being  first  in  peril  as  in  glory. 
Be  whelmed  in  the  fierce  ebb  :  and  these  are  of  them. 
Thrice  has  a  gloomy  vision  hunted  me 
As  thus  from  sleep  into  the  troubled  day  ; 
It  shakes  me  as  the  tempest  shakes  the  sea, 
Leaving  no  figure  upon  memory's  glass. 
"Would  that  —  no  matter.     Thou  didst  say  thou  knewest 
A  Jew,  whose  spirit  is  a  chronicle 
Of  strange  and  secret  and  forgotten  things. 
1  bade  thee  summon  him  :  'tis  said  his  tribe 
Dream,  and  are  wise  interpreters  of  dreams. 

HASSAN. 

The  Jew  of  whom  I  spake  is  old  —  so  old. 

He  seems  to  have  outlived  a  world's  decay ; 

The  hoary  mountains  and  the  wrinkled  ocean 

Seem  younger  still  than  he  ;  his  hair  and  beard 

Are  whiter  than  the  tempest-sifted  snow  ; 

His  cold  pale  limbs  and  pulseless  arteries 

Are  like  the  fibres  of  a  cloud  instinct 

With  light,  and  to  the  soul  that  quickens  them 

Are  as  the  atoms  of  the  mountain-drift 

To  the  winter  wind  :  but  from  his  eye  looks  forth 

A  life  of  unconsumed  thought,  which  pierces 

The  present  and  the  past  and  the  to-come. 

Some  say  that  this  is  he  whom  the  great  prophet 

Jesus,  the  son  of  Joseph,  for  his  mockery 


HELLAS.  399 

Mocked  with  the  cnrse  of  immortality. 
Some  feign  that  he  is  Enoch  ;  others  dream 
He  was  pre- Adamite,  and  has  survived 
Cycles  of  generation  and  of  ruin. 
The  sage,  in  truth,  by  dreadful  abstinence 
And  conquering  penance  of  the  mutinous  flesh, 
Deep  contemplation,  and  unwearied  study, 
In  years  outstretched  beyond  the  date  of  man, 
May  have  attained  to  sovereignty  and  science 
Over  those  strong  and  secret  things  and  thoughts 
Which  others  fear  and  know  not. 


I  would  talk 
With  this  old  Jew. 


Thy  will  is  even  now 
Made  known  to  him,  where  he  dwells  in  a  sea-cavern 
'Mid  the  Demonesi,  less  accessible 
Than  thou  or  God  !     He  who  would  question  him 
Must  sail  alone  at  sunset,  where  the  stream 
Of  ocean  sleeps  around  those  foamless  isles 
When  the  young  moon  is  westering  as  now, 
And  evening  airs  wander  upon  the  wave  ; 
And  when  the  pines  of  that  bee-pasturing  isle, 
Green  Erebinthus,  quench  the  fiery  shadow 
Of  his  gilt  prow  within  the  sapphire  water, 
Then  must  the  lonely  helmsman  cry  aloud, 
"  Ahasuerus  !"  and  the  caverns  round 
Will  answer,  "  Ahasuerus  !"     If  his  prayer 
Be  granted,  a  faint  meteor  will  arise. 
Lighting  him  over  Marmora,  and  a  wind 
Will  rush  out  of  the  sighing  pine-forest. 
And  with  the  wind  a  storm  of  harmony 
Unutterably  sweet,  and  pilot  him 
Through  the  soft  twilight  to  the  Bosphorus  : 
Thence,  at  the  hour  and  place  and  circumstance 
Fit  for  the  matter  of  their  conference. 
The  Jew  appears.     Few  dare,  and  few  who  dare, 
Win  the  desired  communion  —  but  that  shout 
Bodes [A  shout  within. 

MAHMUB. 

Evil,  doubtless  :  like  all  human  sounds. 
Lei  me  converse  with  spirits. 

HASSAN. 

That  shout  again ! 

MAHMUD. 

This  Jew  whom  thou  hast  summoned  — 

HASSAN. 

Will  be  here  — 


400  HELLAS. 


MAHMUD. 

When  the  omnipotent  hour,  to  which  are  yoked 
He,  I,  and  all  things,  shall  compel  —  enough. 
Silence  those  mutineers  —  that  drunken  crew 
That  crowd  about  the  pilot  in  the  storm. 
Ay  !  strike  the  foremost  shorter  by  a  head  ! 
They  weaiy  me,  and  I  have  need  of  rest. 
Kings  are  like  stars  —  they  rise  and  set,  they  have 
The  worship  of  the  world,  but  no  repose. 

\Exeu7it  severally:. 

CHORUS. 

"Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to  decay, 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river, 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away. 
But  they  are  still  immortal 
Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal. 
And  death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 
In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gathered  around  their  chariots  as  they  go  ; 
New  shapes  they  still  may  weave, 
New  gods,  new  laws  receive, 
Bright  or  dim  are  they,  as  the  robes  they  last 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast. 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God  ; 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came  ; 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapor  dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light 
Hell,  Sin  and  Slavery  came. 
Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed  until  their  lord  had  taken  flight. 
The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set : 
While  blazoned  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 

From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradise. 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep. 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes; 
So  fleet,  ,so  faint,  so  fair, 
The  Powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  Star  of  Bethlehem  : 
Apollo,  Pan  and  Love, 
And  even  Olympian  Jove 
Grew  weak,  for  kilUug  Truth  had  glared  on  them. 
Our  hills  and  seas  and  streams, 
Dispeopled  of  their  dreams, 


HELLAS.  401 

Their  waters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears, 
Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 

Eiiter  MAHMUD,  HASSAN,  DAOOD,  and  othcrt. 
MAHMUD. 

More  gold  ?     Our  ancestors  bought  gold  with  victory, 
And  shall  I  sell  it  for  defeat  ? 

DAOOD. 

The  Janizars 
Clamor  for  pay. 

MAHMUD. 

Go  !  bid  them  pay  themselves 
With  Christian  blood  !    Are  there  no  Grecian  virgins 
Whose  shrieks  and  spasms  and  tears  they  may  enjoy  ? 
No  infidel  children  to  impale  on  spears  ? 
No  hoary  priests  after  that  patriarch 
Who  bent  the  curse  against  his  country's  heart, 
Which  clove  his  own  at  last  ?     Go  !  bid  them  kill : 
Blood  is  the  seed  of  gold. 

DAOOD. 

It  has  been  sown, 
And  yet  the  harvest  to  the  sickle-men 
Is  as  a  grain  to  each. 

MAHMUD. 

Then,  take  this  signet, 
Unlock  the  seventh  chamber,  in  which  lie 
The  treasures  of  victorious  Solyman. 
An  empire's  spoils  stored  for  a  day  of  ruin. 
O  spirit  of  my  sires  !  is  it  not  come  ? 
The  prey-birds  and  the  wolves  are  gorged  and  sleep  ; 
But  these,  who  spread  their  feast  on  the  red  earth. 
Hunger  for  gold,  which  fills  not. —  See  them  fed  ; 
Then  lead  them  to  the  rivers  of  fresh  death. 

[Exit  Daood, 
Oh  !  miserable  dawn,  after  a  night 
More  glorious  than  the  day  which  it  usurped  ! 
O  !  faith  in  God  !    O  power  on  earth  !    O  word 
Of  the  great  prophet,  whose  overshadowing  wings 
Darkened  the  thrones  and  idols  of  the  West, 
Now  bright !     For  thy  sake  cursed  be  the  hour. 
Even  as  a  father  by  an  evil  child, 
W^hen  the  orient  moon  of  Islam  rolled  in  triumph 
From  Caucasus  to  white  Ceraunia  ! 
Ruin  above,  and  anarchy  below  ; 
Terror  without,  and  treachery  within  : 
The  chalice  of  destruction  full,  and  all 
Thirsting  to  drink  ;  and  who  among  us  dares 
To  dash  it  from  his  lips  ?  and  where  is  hope  ? 

HASSAN. 

The  lamp  of  our  dominion  still  rides  high  : 
One  God  is  God  —  Mahomet  is  his  prophet. 
2G 


402 


Four  hundred  thousand  Moslems,  from  the  limits 

Of  utmost  Asia,  irresistibly 

Throng,  like  full  clouds  at  the  Sirocco's  crj'. 

But  not  like  them  to  weep  their  strength  in  tears  ; 

They  have  destroying  lightning,  and  their  step 

Wakes  earthquake,  to  consume  and  overwhelm, 

And  reign  in  ruin.     Phrygian  Olympus, 

Tmolus,  and  Latmos,  and  Mycale,  roughen 

With  horrent  arms,  and  lofty  ships,  even  now. 

Like  vapors  anchored  to  a  mountain's  edge, 

Freighted  with  fire  and  whirlwind,  wait  at  Scala 

The  convoy  of  the  ever-veering  wind. 

Samos  is  drunk  with  blood  ;  the  Greek  has  paid 

Brief  victory  with  sw^ift  loss  and  long  despair. 

The  false  Moldavian  serfs  fled  fast  and  far 

When  the  fierce  shout  of  AUah-illa-AUah  ! 

Rose  like  the  war  cry  of  the  northern  wind, 

Which  kills  the  sluggish  clouds,  and  leaves  a  flock 

Of  wild  swans  struggling  with  the  naked  storm. 

So  were  the  lost  Greeks  on  the  Danube's  day! 

If  night  is  mute,  yet  the  returning  sun 

Kindles  the  voices  of  the  morning  birds; 

Nor  at  thy  bidding  less  exultingly 

Than  birds  rejoicing  in  the  golden  day, 

The  Anarchies  of  Africa  unleash 

Their  tempest-winged  cities  of  the  sea. 

To  speak  in  thunder  to  the  rebel  world. 

Like  sulphureous  clouds  half-shattered  by  the  storm, 

They  sweep  the  pale  iEgean,  while  the  Q.ueen 

Of  Ocean,  bound  upon  her  island  throne, 

Far  in  the  west,  sits  mourning  that  her  sons, 

Who  frown  on  Freedom,  spare  a  smile  for  thee  : 

Russia  still  hovers,  as  an  eagle  might 

Within  a  cloud,  near  which  a  kite  and  crane 

Hang  tangled  in  inextricable  fight, 

To  stoop  upon  the  victor  ;  —  for  she  fears 

The  name  of  Freedom,  even  as  she  hates  thine  ; 

But  recreant  Austria  loves  thee  as  the  grave 

Loves  pestilence,  and  her  slow  dogs  of  war. 

Fleshed  with  the  chase,  come  up  from  Italy, 

And  howl  upon  their  limits  ;  for  they  see 

The  panther  Freedom  fled  to  her  old  cover. 

Amid  seas  and  mountains,  and  a  mightier  brood 

Crouch  around.     What  Anarch  weai's  a  crown  or  mitre, 

Or  bears  the  sword,  or  grasps  the  key  of  gold, 

W^hose  friends  are  not  thy  iriends,  whose  foes  thy  foes  ? 

Our  arsenals  and  our  armories  are  full ; 

Our  forts  defy  assaults ;  ten  thousand  cannon 

Lie  ranged  upon  the  beach,  and  hour  by  hour 

Their  earth-convulsing  wheels  afi'right  the  city ; 

The  galloping  of  fiery  steeds  makes  pale 

The  Christian  merchant,  and  the  yellow  Jew 

Hides  his  hoard  deeper  in  the  faithless  earth. 


4C3 


Like  clouds,  and  like  the  shadows  of  the  clouds, 

Over  the  hills  of  Anatolia, 

Swift  in  wide  troops  the  Tartar  chivalry 

Sw^eep ;  the  far-flashing  of  their  starry  lances 

Reverberates  the  dying-  light  of  day. 

We  have  one  God,  one  King,  one  Hope,  one  Law ; 

Bat  many-headed  InsuiTection  stands 

Divided  in  itself,  and  soon  must  fall. 


Proud  w^ords,  when  deeds  come  short,  are  seasonable : 

Look,  Hassan,  on  yon  crescent  moon,  emblazoned 

Upon  that  shattered  flag  of  fiery  cloud 

"Which  leads  the  rear  of  the  departing  day. 

Wan  emblem  of  an  empire  fading  now^ ! 

See  how  it  trembles  in  the  blood-red  air. 

And  like  a  mighty  lamp  whose  oil  is  spent. 

Shrinks  on  the  horizon's  edge,  while,  from  above, 

One  star  with  insolent  and  victorious  light 

Hovers  above  its  fall,  and  with  keen  beams. 

Like  aiTows  through  a  fainting  antelope. 

Strikes  its  weak  form  to  death. 

HASSAN. 

Even  as  that  moon 
Renews  itself 


Shall  we  be  not  renewed  ! 
Far  other  bark  than  ours  were  needed  now 
To  stem  the  torrent  of  descending  time  : 
The  spirit  that  lifts  the  slave  before  its  lord 
Stalks  through  the  capitals  of  armed  kings. 
And  spreads  his  ensign  in  the  v^ilderness  ; 
Exults  in  chains  ;  and  w^hen  the  lebel  falls. 
Cries  like  the  blood  of  Abel  from  the  dust 
And  the  inheritors  of  earth,  like  beasts 
When  earthquake  is  unleashed,  with  idiot  fear 
Cower  in  their  kingly  dens  —  as  I  do  now. 
What  were  Defeat,  when  Victory  must  appall? 
Or  Danger,  when  Security  looks  pale  ? 
How  said  the  messenger  —  who  from  the  fort 
Islanded  in  the  Danube,  saw  the  battle 
Of  Bucharest?  — that— 


Ibrahim's  cimeter 
Drew  with  its  gleam  swift  victory  from  heaven, 
To  burn  before  him  in  tlie  night  of  battle  — 
A  light  and  a  destruction. 

MAHMUD. 

Ay!  the  day 
Was  ours  ;  but  how  ?  — 


404  HELLAS. 

HASSAN. 

The  light  Wallachians, 
The  Amaut,  Servian,  and  Albanian  allies 
Fled  from  the  glance  of  our  artillery 
Almost  before  the  thunder-stone  alit ; 
One  half  the  Grecian  army  made  a  bridge 
Of  safe  and  slow  retreat,  with  Moslem  dead  ; 
The  other — 

MAHMUD. 

Speak  —  tremble  not — 

HASSAN. 

Islanded 
By  victor  myriads,  formed  in  hollow  square 
W^ith  rough  and  steadfast  front,  and  thrice  flung  back 
The  deluge  of  our  foaming  cavalry  ; 
Thrice  their  keen  -wedge  of  battle  pierced  our  lines. 
Onr  baffled  army  ti'embled  like  one  man 
Before  a  host,  and  gave  them  space ;  but  soon, 
From  the  surrounding  hills,  the  batteries  blazed, 
Kneading  them  down  with  fire  and  iron  rain. 
Yet  none  approached ;  till,  like  a  field  of  corn 
Under  the  hook  of  the  swart  sickle-man, 
The  bands,  entrenched  in  mounds  of  Turkish  dead. 
Grew  weak  and  few.     Then  said  the  pacha,  "  Slaves, 
Render  yourselves  —  they  have  abandoned  you  — 
What  hope  of  refuge,  or  retreat,  or  aid  ? 
We  grant  your  lives."     "  Grant  that  which  is  thine  own. 
Cried  one,  and  fell  upon  his  sword  and  died ! 
Another —  "  God  and  man  and  hope  abandon  me ; 
But  I  to  them  and  to  myself  remain 
Constant ;"  he  bowed  his  head  and  his  heart  burst. 
A  third  exclaimed,  "  There  is  a  refuge,  tyrant, 
Where  thou  darest  not  pursue,  and  canst  not  harm, 
Shouldst  thou  pursue  ;  there  we  shall  meet  again." 
Then  held  his  breath,  and,  after  a  brief  spasm, 
The  indignant  spirit  cast  its  mortal  garment 
Among  the  slain  —  dead  earth  upon  the  earth  ! 
So  these  survivors,  each  by  different  -ways. 
Some  strange,  all  sudden,  none  dishonorable, 
Met  in  triumphant  death  ;  and  when  our  army 
Closed  in,  while  yet  wonder  and  awe  and  shame 
Held  back  the  base  hyenas  of  the  battle 
That  feed  upon  the  dead  and  fly  the  living, 
One  rose  out  of  the  chaos  of  the  slain  ; 
And  if  it  were  a  corpse  which  some  dread  spirit 
Of  the  old  saviors  of  the  land  we  role ' 
Had  lifted  in  its  anger,  "wandering  by  ; 
Or  if  there  burned  within  the  dying  man 
Unquenchable  disdain  of  death,  and  faith 
Creating  what  it  feigned  ;  1  can  not  tell : 
But  he  cried,  "  Phantoms  of  the  free,  we  come  ! 
Annies  of  the  Eternal,  ye  who  strike 


HELLAS.  405 

To  dast  the  citadels  of  sanguine  kings, 

And  shake  the  souls  throned  on  their  stony  hearts, 

And  thaw  their  frost-vs'ork  diadems  like  dew  ; 

O  ye  who  float  around  this  clime,  and  weave 

The  garment  of  the  glory  which  it  wears  ; 

Whose  fame,  though  earth  betray  tlie  dust  it  clasped, 

Lies  sepulchred  in  monumental  thought ; 

Progenitors  of  all  that  yet  is  great, 

Ascribe  to  your  bright  senate,  O  accept 

In  your  high  ministrations,  us,  your  sons — 

Us  first,  and  the  more  glorious  yet  to  come! 

And  ye,  weak  conquerors!  giants  who  look  pale 

When  the  crushed  worm  rebels  beneath  your  tread — 

The  vultures,  and  the  dogs  your  pensioners  tame, 

Are  overgorged  ;  but,  like  oppressors,  still 

They  crave  the  relic  of  Destruction's  feast. 

The  exhalations  and  the  thirsty  winds 

Are  sick  with  blood  ;  the  dew  is  foul  with  death  — 

Heaven's  light  is  quenched  in  slaughter  :  thus  where'er 

Upon  your  camps,  cities,  or  towers  or  fleets 

The  obscene  birds  the  reeking  remnants  cast 

Of  these  dead  limbs,  upon  your  streams  and  mountains, 

Upon  your  fields,  your  gardens  and  your  housetops, 

Where'er  the  winds  sliall  creep,  or  the  clouds  fly, 

Or  the  dews  fall,  or  the  angry  sun  look  down 

With  poisoned  light — Famine  and  Pestilence 

And  Panic  shall  wage  war  upon  our  side  ! 

Nature  from  all  her  boundaries  is  moved 

Against  ye  :  Time  has  found  ye  light  as  foam. 

The  Earth  rebels  ;  and  Good  and  Evil  stake 

Their  empire  o'er  the  unborn  world  of  men 

On  this  one  cast :  but  ere  the  die  be  thrown, 

The  renovated  genius  of  our  race. 

Proud  umpire  of  the  impious  game,  descends 

A  seraph  winged  Victory,  bestriding 

The  tempest  of  the  Omnipotence  of  God, 

Which  sweeps  all  things  to  their  appointed  doom, 

And  you  to  oblivion  !"  —  More  he  would  have  said, 

But  — 

MAHMUD. 

Died  —  as  thou  shouldst  ere  thy  lips  had  painted 
Their  ruin  in  the  hues  of  our  success. 
A  rebel's  crime,  gilt  with  a  rebel's  tongue  I 
Your  heart  is  Greek,  Hassan. 


It  may  be  so  ; 
A  spirit  not  my  own  wrenched  me  within, 
And  I  have  spoken  words  I  fear  and  hate  ; 
Yet  would  I  die  for  — 

MAHMUD. 

Live  !  O  live  I  outlive 
Me  and  this  sinking  empire  :  but  the  fleet  — 


406  HELLAS. 

HASSAN. 

Alas! 

MAHMUD. 

The  fleet  which,  like  a  flock  of  clouds 
Chased  by  the  Nvind,  flies  the  insurgent  banner : 
Our  winged  castles  from  their  merchant  ships  ! 
Our  myriads  before  their  weak  pirate  bands  ! 
Our  arms  before  their  chains  !     Our  years  of  empire 
Before  their  centuries  of  servile  fear  ! 
Death  is  awake  !     Repulsed  on  the  waters. 
They  own  no  more  the  thunder  bearing  banner 
Of  Mahmud  ;  but  like  hounds  of  a  base  breed, 
Gorge  from  a  stranger's  hand,  and  rend  their  master. 

HASSAN. 

Latmos  and  Ampelos  and  Phanae  saw 
The  wreck  — 

MAHMUD. 

Tbe  caves  of  the  Icaiian  isles 
Hold  each  to  the  other  in  loud  mockery, 
And  with  the  tongue  as  of  a  thousand  echoes 
First  of  the  sea-convulsing  fight  —  and  then  — 
Thou  darest  to  speak  —  senseless  are  the  mountains  ; 
Interpret  thou  their  voice  ! 

HASSAN. 

My  presence  bore 
A  part  in  that  day's  shame.     The  Grecian  fleet 
Bore  dow^n  at  daybreak  from  the  north,  and  hung 
As  multitudinous  on  the  ocean  line 
As  cranes  upon  the  cloudless  Thracian  wind. 
Our  squadron,  convoying  ten  thousand  men. 
Was  stretching  toward  Nauplia  when  the  battle 
Was  kindled. — 

First  through  the  hail  of  our  artillery 
The  agile  Hydriote  barks  with  press  of  sail 
Dashed  :  ship  to  ship,  cannon  to  cannon,  man 
To  man  were  grappled  in  the  embrace  of  war. 
Inextricable  but  by  death  or  victory. 
The  tempest  of  the  raging  fight  convulsed 
To  its  crystalline  depths  that  stainless  .sea. 
And  shook  heaven's  roof  of  golden  morning  clouds 
Poised  on  a  hundred  azure  mountain-isles. 
In  the  brief  trances  of  the  artillery, 
One  cry  from  the  de.stroyed  and  the  destroyer 
Rose,  and  a  cloud  of  desolation  wrapped 
The  unforeseen  event,  tiU  the  north  wind 
Sprung  from  the  sea.  lifting  the  heavy  vail 
Of  battle-smoke  —  then  victoiy  —  victory  ! 
For,  as  we  thought,  three  frigates  from  Algiers 
Bore  down  from  Naxos  to  our  aid,  but  soon 
The  abhorred  cross  glimmered  behind,  before, 
Among,  around  us  ;  and  that  fatal  sign 


HELLAS.  407 

Dried  with  its  beams  the  strength  of  Moslem  hearts, 

As  the  sun  drinks  the  dew.  —  What  more  ?    We  tied  ! 

Our  noonday  path  over  the  sanguine  foam 

Was  beaconed,  and  the  glare  struck  the  sun  pale 

By  our  consuming  transports  ;  the  iierce  light 

Made  all  the  shadows  of  our  sails  blood-red, 

And  every  countenance  blank.     Some  ships  lay  feeding 

The  ravening  fire  even  to  the  water's  level : 

Some  were  blown  up  ;  some,  settling  heavily, 

Sunk  ;  and  the  shrieks  of  our  companions  died 

Upon  the  wind,  that  bore  us  fast  and  far, 

Even  after  they  were  dead.     Nine  thou.sand  perished  ! 

We  met  the  vultures  legioned  in  the  air. 

Stemming  the  torrent  of  the  tainted  wind  : 

They,  screaming  from  their  cloudy  mountain  peaks, 

Stooped  tlirough  the  sulphureous  battle-smoke,  and  perched 

Each  on  the  weltering  carcass  that  we  loved, 

Like  its  ill  angel  or  its  damned  soul. 

Riding  upon  the  bosom  of  tlie  sea. 

We  saw  the  dog-iish  hastening  to  their  feast. 

Joy  waked  tlie  voiceless  people  of  the  sea, 

And  ravening  Famine  left  his  ocean-cave 

To  dwell  witli  war,  with  us,  and  with  despair. 

We  met  night  three  hours  to  the  west  of  Patmos, 

As  with  night,  tempest  — 

MAHMUD. 

Cease ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
MESSENGER. 

Your  sublime  highness, 
That  Christian  hound,  the  Muscovite  embassador, 
Has  left  the  city.     If  the  rebel  fleet 
Had  anchored  in  the  port,  had  victory 
Crowned  the  Greek  legions  in  the  Hippodrome, 
Panic  were  tamer.     Obedience  and  Mutiny, 
Like  giants  in  contention  planet-struck, 
Stand  gazing  on  each  other.     There  is  peace 
In  Stamboul.  — 

MAHMUD. 

Is  the  grave  not  calmer  still  ? 
Its  ruins  shall  be  mine. 

HASSAN. 

Fear  not  the  Russian 
The  tiger  leagues  not  with  the  stag  at  bay 
Against  the  hunter.     Cunning,  base  and  cruel, 
He  crouches,  watching  till  tlie  spoil  be  won, 
And  must  be  paid  for  his  reserve  in  blood. 
After  the  war  is  fought,  yield  the  sleek  Russian 
That  which  thou  canst  not  keep,  his  deserved  portion 
Of  blood,  which  shall  not  liow  tluough  streets  and  fields, 


408  HELLAS. 

Rivers  and  seas,  like  that  which  we  may  win, 
But  stagnate  in  the  veins  of  Christian  slaves  ! 

Enter  second  Messenger. 
SECOND    MESSKNGER. 

Nauplia,  Tripolizza,  Mothon.  Athens, 

Navarin.  Artas,  Monembasia, 

Corinth  and  Thebes  are  carried  by  assault ; 

And  every  Islamite  who  made  his  dogs 

Fat  with  the  flesh  of  Galilean  slaves,  ^ 

Passed  at  the  edge  of  the  sword  :  the  lust  of  blood 

Which  made  our  warriors  drunk,  is  quenched  in  death; 

But  like  a  fiery  plague  breaks  out  anew 

In  deeds  which  make  the  Christian  cause  look  pale 

In  its  own  light.     The  garrison  of  Patras 

Has  store  but  for  ten  days,  nor  is  there  hope 

But  from  the  Briton  ;  at  once  slave  and  tyrant, 

His  wishes  still  are  weaker  than  his  fears' ; 

Or  he  would  sell  what  faith  may  yet  remain 

From  the  oaths  broke  in  Genoa'and  in  Norway  : 

And  if  you  buy  him  not,  your  treasury 

Is  empty  even  of  promises  —  his  own  coin. 

The  freeman  of  a  v/estein  poet  chief 

Holds  Attica  with  seven  thousand  rebels, 

And  has  beat  back  the  pacha  of  Negropont  ; 

The  aged  Ali  sits  in  Yaniua, 

A  crownless  metaphor  of  empire  ; 

His  name,  that  shadow  of  his  withered  might, 

Holds  our  besieging  army  like  a  spell 

In  prey  to  famine,  pest  and  mutiny  : 

He,  bastioned  in  his  citadel,  looks  forth 

Joyless  upon  the  sapphire  lake  that  mirrors 

The  ruins  of  the  city  where  he  reigned 

Childless  and  sceptreless.     The  Greek  has  reaped 

The  costly  harvest  his  own  blood  matured, 

Not  the  sower  Ali  —  w^ho  has  bought  a  truce 

From  Ypsilanti,  with  ten  camel-loads 

Of  Indian  gold. 

Enter  a  titird  Messenger. 
MAHMUD. 

What  more  ? 

THIRD    MESSENGER. 

The  Christian  tribes 
Of  Lebanon  and  the  Syrian  wilderness 
Are  in  revolt ;  Damascus,  Hems,  Aleppo, 
Tremble  ;  the  Arab  menaces  Medina  ; 
The  Ethiop  has  intrenched  himself  in  Sennaar, 
And  keeps  the  Egyptian  rebel  well  employed, 
Who  denies  homage,  claims  investiture 
As  price  of  tardy  aid.     Persia  demands 
The  cities  on  the  Tigris,  and  the  Georgians 
Refuse  their  living  tribute.     Crete  and  Cyprus, 


HELLAS.  409 

Like  mountain-twins  that  from  each  other's  veins 
Catch  the  volcano-fire  and  earthquake-spasm, 
Shake  in  the  general  fever.     Through  the  city- 
Like  birds  before  a  storm  the  Santons  shriek, 
And  prophesyings  horrible  and  new 
Are  heard  among  the  crowd  ;  that  sea  of  men 
Sleeps  on  the  wrecks  it  made,  breathless  and  still. 
A  dervise,  learned  in  the  Koran,  preaches 
That  it  is  written  how  the  sins  of  Islam 
Must  raise  up  a  destroyer  even  now. 
The  Greeks  expect  a  savior  from  the  West ; 
Who  shall  not  come,  men  say,  in  clouds  and  glory, 
But  in  the  omnipresence  of  that  spirit 
In  which  all  live  and  are.     Ominous  signs 
Are  blazoned  broadly  on  the  noonday  sky  : 
One  saw  a  red  cross  stamped  upon  the  sun  ; 
It  has  rained  blood  ;  and  monstrous  births  declare 
The  secret  wrath  of  Nature  and  her  Lord. 
The  army  encamped  upon  the  Cydaris 
Was  roused  last  night  by  the  alarm  of  battle, 
And  saw  two  hosts  conflicting  in  the  air  — 
The  shadows  doubtless  of  the  unborn  time, 
Cast  on  the  mirror  of  the  night.     While  yet 
The  fight  hung  balanced,  there  arose  a  storm 
Which  swept  the  phantoms  from  among  the  stars. 
At  the  third  watch  the  spirit  of  the  plague 
Was  heard  abroad  flapping  among  the  tents  : 
Those  who  relieved  watch  found  the  sentinels  dead. 
The  last  news  from  the  camp  is,  that  a  thousand 
Have  sickened,  and  — 

Enter  ajmtrth  Messenger. 
MAHMUD. 

And  thou,  pale  ghost,  dim  shadow 
Of  some  untimely  rumor,  speak  ! 

FOURTH   MESSENGER. 

One  comes 
Fainting  with  toil,  covered  with  foam  and  blood  ; 
He  stood,  he  says,  upon  Clelonit's 
Promontoi-y.  which  o'erlooks  the  isles  that  groan 
Under  the  Briton's  frown,  and  all  their  waters 
Then  trembling  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon  ; 
W^hen,  as  the  wandering  clouds  unvailed  or  hid 
Her  boundless  light,  he  saw  two  adverse  fleets 
Stalk  through  the  night  in  the  horizon's  glimmer, 
Mingling  fierce  thunders  and  sulphureous  gleams, 
And  smoke  which  strangled  every  infant  wind 
That  soothed  the  silver  clouds  through  the  deep  air. 
At  length  the  battle  slept,  but  the  Sirocco 
Awoke,  and  diove  his  flock  of  thunder-clouds 
Over  the  sea-horizon,  blotting  out 
All  objects  —  .save  that  in  the  faint  moon-glimpse 
He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw,  the  Turkish  admiral 


410  HELLAS. 

And  two  the  loftiest  of  our  ships  of-v^'ar, 
With  the  hright  image  of  tliat  qneen  of  heaven. 
Who  hid.  perhaps,  her  face  for  grief,  reversed  ; 
And  the  abhorred  cross  — 

Enter  an  Attendant. 
ATTENDANT. 

Your  subHme  highness, 
The  Jew,  who 

MAHMUD. 

Could  not  come  more  seasonably : 
Bid  him  attend.     I'll  hear  no  more  !    Too  long 
We  gaze  on  danger  through  the  mist  of  fear, 
And  multiply  upon  our  shattered  hopes 
The  images  of  ruin.     Come  what  will ! 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  are  as  lamps 
Set  in  our  path  to  light  us  to  the  edge 
Through  rough  and  smooth  ;  nor  can  we  suffer  aught 
Which  He  inflicts  not  in  whose  band  we  are.         [Exeunt. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Would  I  were  the  winged  cloud 
Of  a  tempest  swift  and  loud ! 

1  would  scorn 

The  smile  of  morn, 
And  the  wave  where  the  moonrise  is  born  ! 

I  would  leave 

The  spirits  of  eve 
A  shroud  for  the  corpse  of  the  day  to  weave 
From  other  threads  than  mine  ! 
Bask  in  the  blue  noon  divine 

Who  would,  not  I. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Whither  to  fly  ? 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Where  the  rocks  that  gird  th'  JEgean 
Echo  to  the  battle-paian 

Of  the  free  — 

I  would  flee 
A  tempestuous  herald  of  victory  ! 

My  golden  rain 

For  the  Grecian  slain 
Should  mingle  in  tears  with  the  bloody  main  ; 
And  my  solemn  thunder-knell 
Should  ring  to  the  world  the  passing-bell 

Of  tyranny  ! 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Ah  king  !  wilt  thou  chain 
The  rack  and  the  rain  ? 
Wilt  thou  fetter  the  lightning  and  hurricane  ? 
The  storms  are  free, 
But  we 


HELLAS.  411 

CHORUS. 

O  Slavery  !  thou  frost  of  the  world's  prime, 

KiUing  its  flo\ver3  and  leaving  its  thorns  bare  ! 
Thy  touch  has  stamped  these  limbs  with  crime, 
These  brows  thy  branding  garland  bear  ; 
But  the  free  heart,  the  impassive  soul, 
Scorn  thy  control  ! 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Let  there  be  light !  said  Liberty  ; 
And  like  sunrise  from  the  sea, 
Athens  arose  !     Around  her  born, 
Shone  like  mountains  in  the  morn, 
Glorious  states ;  and  are  they  now 
Ashes,  wrecks,  oblivion  ? 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Go 
Where  Thermae  and  Asopus  swallowed 

Persia,  as  the  sand  does  foam. 
Deluge  upon  deluge  followed, 

Discord,  Macedou,  and  Rome  : 
And,  lastly,  thou  ! 

SEMICHORUS    1. 

Temples  and  towers, 
Citadels  and  marts,  and  they 

Who  live  and  die  there,  have  been  ours, 
And  may  be  thine,  and  must  decay  ; 

But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 

Built  below  the  tide  of  war. 

Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 

Of  thought  and  its  eternity  ; 
Her  citizens,  imperial  spirits, 

Rule  the  present  from  the  past, 
On  all  thi-s  world  of  men  inherits 

Their  seal  is  set. 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

Hear  ye  the  blast, 
Whose  Orphic  thunder  thrilling  calls 
From  ruin  her  Titanian  walls  ? 
Whose  spirit  shakes  the  sapless  bones 

Of  Slavery  ?     Argos,  Corinth,  Crete, 
Hear,  and  from  their  mountain  thrones 

The  demons  and  the  nymphs  repeat 
The  harmony. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

I  hear !  1  hear ! 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

The  world's  eyeless  charioteer. 

Destiny,  is  hurrying  by  ! 
What  faith  is  crashed,  what  empire  bleeda 
Beneath  her  earthquake-footed  steeds  ? 


412  HELLAS. 

What  eagle-winged  victory  sits 

At  her  right  hand  ?  what  shadow  flits 

Before  ?  what  splendor  rolls  behind  ? 

Ruin  and  Renovation  cry, 
Who  but  we  ? 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

I  hear  !  I  hear ! 
The  hiss  as  of  a  rushing  wind, 
The  roar  as  of  an  ocean  foaming, 
The  thunder  as  of  earthquake  coming, 

I  hear  !  I  hear  ! 
The  crash  as  of  an  empire  falling, 
The  shrieks  as  of  a  people  calling 
"  Mercy  !  mercy  !"  —  How  they  thrill ! 
Then  a  shout  of  "  Kill !  kill  !  kill  I" 
And  then  a  small  still  voice,  thus  — 

SEMICHOUUS    11. 

For 
Revenge  and  wrong  bring  forth  their  kind, 

The  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are, 
Their  den  is  in  their  guilty  mind, 

And  Conscience  feeds  them  with  despair. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

In  sacred  Athens,  near  the  fane 

Of  Wisdom,  Pity's  altar  stood  : 
Serve  not  the  unknown  god  in  vaui, 
But  pay  that  broken  shrine  again, 
Love  for  hate,  and  tears  for  blood. 

Enter  M  AH  MUD  and  AHASUERUS. 
MAHMUD. 

Thou  art  a  man,  thou  sayest,  even  as  we  — 

AHASUERUS. 

No  more ! 

MAHMUD. 

But  raised  above  thy  fellow-men 
By  thought,  as  I  by  power. 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou  sayest  so. 

MAHMUD. 

Thou  art  an  adept  in  the  difficult  lore 

Of  Greek  and  Frank  philosophy  ;  thou  numberest 

The  flowers,  and  thou  measurcs't  the  stars ; 

Thou  severest  element  from  element ; 

Thy  spirit  is  present  in  the  past,  and  .sees 

The  birth  of  this  old  world  through  all  its  cycles 

Of  de.solation  and  of  loveiine.ss  ; 

And  when  man  w^as  not.  and  how  man  became 

The  monarch  and  the  slave  of  this  low  sphere, 

And  all  its  narrow  circles  —  it  is  much. 


HELLAS.  413 

I  honor  thee,  and  would  be  what  thou  art 
Were  I  not  what  I  am  ;  but  the  unborn  hour, 
Cradled  in  fear  and  hope,  con  dieting  storms, 
Who  shall  unvail  ?     Nor  thou,  nor  I,  nor  any 
Mighty  or  wise.     I  apprehend  not 
What  thou  hast  taug:ht  me,  but  I  now  perceive 
That  thou  art  no  interpreter  of  dreams  ; 
Thou  dost  not  own  that  art,  device,  or  God, 
Can  make  the  future  present  —  let  it  come  ! 
Moreover,  thou  disdaine.st  us  and  ours  ; 
Thou  art  as  God,  whom  thou  contemplatest. 

AHASUERtlS. 

Disdain  thee  ?  —  not  the  worm  beneath  my  feet ! 

The  Fathomless  has  care  for  meaner  things 

Than  thou  canst  dream,  and  has  made  pride  for  those 

Who  would  be  what  they  may  not.  or  would  seem 

That  which  they  are  not.     Sultan  !  talk  no  more 

Of  thee  and  me,  the  future  and  the  past ; 

But  look  on  that  which  can  not  change  —  the  One 

The  unborn,  and  the  undying.     Earth  and  ocean. 

Space,  and  the  i.sles  of  lite  or  light  that  gem 

The  sapphire  floods  of  interstellar  air, 

This  firmament  pavilioned  upon  chaos, 

With  all  its  cressets  of  immortal  fire, 

Who.se  outwalls,  bastioned  impregnably 

Against  the  escape  of  boldest  thoughts,  repels  them 

As  Calpe  the  Atlantic  clouds  —  this  whole 

Of  suns  and  worlds  and  men  and  beasts  and  flowers, 

With  all  the  silent  or  tempestuous  workings 

By  which  they  have  been,  are,  or  cease  to  be. 

Is  but  a  vision  ;  all  that  it  inherits 

Are  motes  of  a  sick  eye,  bubbles  and  dreams ; 

Thought  is  its  cradle  and  its  grave,  nor  less 

The  future  and  the  past  are  idle  shadows 

Of  thought's  eteruai  flight — they  have  no  being; 

Naught  is  but  that  it  feels  itself  to  be. 


What  meanest  thou  ?    Thy  words  strea:ii  like  a  tempest 
Of  dazzling  mist  within  my  brain  ;  they  shake 
The  earth  on  which  I  stand,  and  hang  like  night 
On  heaven  above  me.     What  can  they  avail  ? 
They  cast  on  all  things,  surest,  brightest,  best, 
Doubt,  ii  .■;',(■■  rity.  astonishment. 

AHASUKRUS. 

Mistake  uu*  not !     All  is  contained  in  each. 

Dodona'.s  foc-t  to  an  acorn's  cup 

Is  that  V  hicli  has  been  or  will  be,  to  that 

Which  is  —  the  absent  to  the  present.     Thought 

Alone,  aiji  as  quick  elements,  Will,  Passion, 

Reason,  Imagination,  can  not  die  ; 

They  are  what  that  which  they  regard  appears. 


414  HELLAS. 

The  stuff  whence  mutability  can  weave 
All  that  it  hath  dominion  o'er  —  worlds,  worms, 
Empires,  and  superstitions.     What  has  thought 
To  do  with  time,  or  place,  or  circumstance  ? 
"Wouldst  thou  behold  the  future  ?  ask  and  have  ! 
Knock  and  it  shall  be  opened  — look,  and  lo  ! 
The  coming  age  is  shadowed  on  the  past, 
As  on  a  glass. 

MAHMUD. 

Wild,  wilder  thoughts  convulse 
My  spirit  —  did  not  Mahomet  the  Second 
WinStamboul? 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou  wouldst  ask  that  giant  spirit 
The  written  fortunes  of  thy  house  and  faith. 
Thou  wouldst  cite  one  out  of  the  grave  to  tell 
How  what  was  born  in  blood  must  die. 

MAHMUD. 

Thy  words 
Have  power  on  me !  I  see — 

AHASUERUS. 

What  hearest  thou  ? 

MAHMUD. 

A  far  whisper 

Terrible  silence. 

AHASUERUS. 

What  succeeds  ? 

MAHMUD. 

The  sound 
As  of  the  assault  of  an  imperial  city. 
The  hiss  of  inextinguishable  fire, 
The  roar  of  giant  cannon  ;  the  earthquaking 
Fall  of  vast  bastions  and  precipitous  towers. 
The  shock  of  crags  shot  from  strange  engin'ry, 
The  clash  of  wheels,  and  clang  of  armed  hoofs, 
And  crash  of  brazen  mail,  as  of  the  wreck 
Of  adamantine  mountains  —  the  mad  blast 
Of  trumpets,  and  the  neigh  of  raging  steeds, 
And  shrieks  of  women  whose  thrill  jars  the  blood, 
And  one  sweet  laugh,  most  horrible  to  hear, 
As  of  a  joyous  infant  waked  and  playing 
With  its  dead  mother's  breast ;  and  now  more  loud 
The  mingled  battle-cry  —  ha  !  hear  I  not 
'Ev  TovTU)  vixT).     Allah-illah-AUah  ! 

AHASUERUS. 

The  sulphureous  mist  is  raised  —  thou  seest — 

MAHMUD. 

A  chasm. 
As  of  two  mountains,  in  the  wall  of  Stamboul  -, 
And  in  that  ghastly  breach  the  Islamites, 


HELLAS.  415 

Like  giants  on  the  ruins  of  a  world, 
Stand  in  the  light  of  sunrise.     In  the  dust 
Glimmers  a  kingless  diadem,  and  one 
Of  regal  port  has  cast  himself  beneath 
The  stream  of  war.     Another,  proudly  clad 
In  golden  arms,  spurs  a  Tartarian  barb 
Into  tlie  gap,  and  with  his  iron  mace 
Directs  the  torrent  of  that  tide  of  men, 
And  seems  —  he  is  —  Mahomet ! 

AHASUERUS. 

What  thou  see'st 
Is  but  the  ghost  of  thy  forgotten  dream ; 
A  dream  itself,  yet  less,  perhaps,  than  that 
Thou  call'st  reality.     Thou  mayst  behold 
How  cities,  on  which  empire  sleeps  enthroned, 
Bow^  their  towered  cres^ts  to  mutability. 
Poised  by  the  flood,  e'en  on  the  height  thou  boldest. 
Thou  mayst  now  learn  how  the  full  tide  of  power 
Ebbs  to  its  depths.     Inheritor  of  glory. 
Conceived  in  darkness,  born  in  blood,  and  nourished 
With  tears  and  toil,  thou  seest  the  mortal  throes 
Of  that  whose  birth  was  but  the  same.     The  Past 
Now  stands  before  thee  like  an  Incarnation 
Of  the  To-come  ;  yet  would.st  thou  commune  with 
That  portion  of  thyself  which  was  ere  thou 
Did.st  start  for  this  brief  race  whose  crown  is  death ; 
Dissolve  with  that  strong  faith  and  fervent  passion 
Which  called  it  from  the  uncreated  deep. 
Yon  cloud  of  war  with  its  tempestuous  phantoms 
Of  raging  death  ;  and  draw  with  mighty  will 
The  imperial  shade  hither.  [Exit  Ahasuerus, 

MAHMUD. 

Approach! 

PHANTOM. 

I  come 
Thence  whither  thou  must  go  !     The  grave  is  fitter 
To  take  the  living,  than  give  up  the  dead ; 
Yet  has  thy  faith  prevailed,  and  I  am  here. 
The  heavy  fragments  of  the  power  which  fell 
When  I  arose,  like  shapeless  crags  and  clouds. 
Hang  round  my  throne  on  the  abyss,  and  voices 
Of  strange  lament  sooth  my  supreme  repose, 
Wailing  for  glory  never  to  return. 

A  later  empire  nods  in  its  decay  ; 
The  Autumn  of  a  greener  faith  is  come, 
And  wolfish  change,  like  winter,  howls  to  strip 
The  foliage  in  which  fame,  the  eagle,  built 
Her  aerie,  while  dominion  whelped  below. 
The  storm  is  in  its  branches,  and  the  frost 
Is  on  its  leaves,  and  the  blank  deeo  expects 
Oblivion  on  oblivion,  spoil  on  spoil, 
Ruin  on  ruin  ;  thou  art  slow,  my  sou ; 


416  HELLAS. 

The  Anarchs  of  the  world  of  darkness  keep 

A  throne  for  thee,  round  which  thine  empire  lies 

Boundless  and  mute  ;  and  for  thy  subjects  thou, 

Like  us,  shall  rule  the  ghosts  of  murdered  life, 

The  phantoms  of  the  powers  who  rule  thee  now  — 

Mutinous  passions  and  conflicting  fears, 

And  hopes  that  sate  themselves  on  dust  and  die  ! 

Stript  of  their  mortal  strength,  as  thou  of  thine. 

Islam  must  fall,  but  we  will  reign  together 

Over  its  ruins  in  the  world  of  death  : 

And  if  the  trunk  be  dry,  yet  shall  the  seed 

Unfold  itself  even  in  the  shape  of  that 

Which  gathers  birth  in  its  decay.     Woe  !  woe  ! 

To  the  weak  people  tangled  in  the  grasp 

Of  its  last  spasms. 

MAHMUD. 

Spirit,  w^oe  to  all ! 
Woe  to  the  wronged  and  the  avenger  !     Woe 
To  the  destroyer,  woe  to  the  destroyed  ! 
Woe  to  the  dupe,  and  woe  to  the  deceiver ! 
Woe  to  the  oppressed,  and  vv^oe  to  the  oppressor ! 
Woe  both  to  those  that  suffer  and  inflict ; 
Those  who  are  born,  and  those  who  die  !     But  say, 
Imperial  shadow  of  the  thing  I  am, 
When,  how,  by  whom,  Destruction  must  accomplish 
Her  consummation  ? 

PHANTOM. 

Ask  the  cold  pale  Hour, 
Rich  in  reversion  of  impending  death, 
When  he  shall  fall  upon  whose  ripe  gray  hairs 
Sit  care,  and  sorrow,  and  infirmity  — 

The  weight  which  Crime,  whose  wings  are  plumed  with  years, 
Leaves  in  his  flight  from  ravaged  heart  to  heart 
Over  the  heads  of  men,  under  which  burthen 
They  bow  themselves  unto  the  grave  :  fond  wretch  ! 
He  leans  upon  his  crutch,  and  talks  of  years 
To  come,  and  how  in  hours  of  youth  renewed 
He  will  renew  lost  joys,  and 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Victory !  victory ! 
[  The  Phantom  vanishes. 

MAHMUD. 

What  sound  of  the  importunate  earth  has  broken 
My  mighty  ti-ance  ? 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Victory !  victory ! 

MAHMUD. 

Weak  lightning  before  darkness  !  poor  faint  smile 
Of  dying  Islam  !     Voice  which  art  the  response 
Of  hollow  weakness  !     Do  I  wake  and  live  ? 


k 


HELLAS.  417 

Were  there  such  things  ?  or  may  the  unquiet  brain, 

Vexed  by  the  wise  mad  talk  of  the  old  Jew, 

Have  shaped  itself  these  shadows  of  its  fear  ? 

It  matters  not  !  for  naught  we  see  or  dream, 

Possess,  or  lose,  or  grasp  at,  can  be  w^orth 

More  than  it  gives  or  teaches.     Come  what  may, 

The  future  must  become  the  past,  and  I 

As  they  were,  to  whom  once  this  present  hour. 

This  gloomy  crag  of  time  to  w^hich  I  cling. 

Seemed  an  Elysian  isle  of  peace  and  joy 

Never  to  be  attained.     I  must  rebuke 

This  drunkenness  of  triumph  ere  it  die, 

And  dying  bring  despair.     Victory!  poor  slaves ! 

[Exit  Mahmud. 

VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Shout  in  the  jubilee  of  death  !    The  Greeks      ' 

Are  as  a  brood  of  lions  in  the  net, 

Round  which  the  kingly  hunters  of  the  earth 

Stand  smiling.     Anarchs  !  ye  whose  daily  food 

Are  curses,  groans  and  gold,  the  fruit  of  death, 

From  Thule  to  the  girdle  of  the  world. 

Come,  feast !  the  board  groans  with  the  flesh  of  men  — 

The  cup  is  foaming  with  a  nation's  blood, 

Famine  and  Thirst  await :  eat,  drink  and  die  ! 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Victorious  Wrong,  with  vulture  scream, 
Salutes  the  risen  sun,  punsues  the  flying  day  ! 

I  saw  her  ghastly  as  a  tyrant's  dream. 
Perch  on  the  trembling  pyramid  of  night. 
Beneath  which  earth  and  all  her  realms  pavilioned  lay 
In  visions  of  the  dawning  undelight. 

^Vho  shall  impede  her  flight  ? 
Who  rob  her  of  her  prey  ? 

VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory  !  Russia's  famished  eagles 
Dare  not  to  prey  beneath  the  crescent's  light. 
Impale  the  remnant  of  the  Greeks  !  despoil ! 
Violate  !  make  their  flesh  cheaper  than  dust ! 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Thou  voice  which  art 
The  herald  of  the  ill  in  splendor  hid  ! 

Thou  echo  of  the  hollow  heart 
Of  monarchy,  bear  me  to  thine  abode 

When  desolation  Hashes  o'er  a  world  destroyed. 
Oh  bear  me  to  those  isles  of  jagged  cloud 

Which  float  like  mountains  on  the  earthquakes,  mid 
The  momentary  oceans  of  the  lightning  ; 

Or  to  some  toppling  promontory  proud 

Of  solid  tempest,  whose  black  pyramid. 
Riven,  overhangs  the  founts  intensely  brightening 

Of  those  dawn  tinted  deluges  of  fire 

Before  their  waves  expire, 
27 


418  HELLAS. 

When  heaven  and  earth  are  light,  and  only  light 
In  the  thunder-night ! 

VOICE   WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory  !    Austria,  Russia.  England, 
And  that  tame  serpent,  that  poor  shadow,  France, 
Cry  peace,  and  that  means  death  when  monarchs  speak 
Ho,  there  !  bring  torches,  sharpen  those  red  stakes  ! 
These  chains  are  light,  fitter  for  slaves  and  poisoners 
Than  Grreeks.     Kill !  plunder  !  burn !  let  none  remain. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

Alas  for  Liberty  ! 
If  numbers,  wealth,  or  unfulfiUing  years, 
Or  fate,  can  quell  the  free  ; 

Alas  for  Virtue  !  when 
Torments  or  contumely  or  the  sneers 

Of  erring  judging  men 
Can  break  the  heart  where  it  abides. 
Alas !   if  Love,  whose  smile  makes  this  obscure  world 
splendid. 
Can  change,  with  its  false  times  and  tides, 
Like  hope  and  terror. 
Alas  for  Love  ! 
And  Truth,  who  wanderest  lone  and  unbefriended, 
If  thou  canst  vail  thy  lie-consuming  mirror 
Before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  Error. 
Alas  for  thee  !  image  of  the  Above. 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Repulse,  with  plumes  from  conquest  torn, 

Led  the  ten  thousand  from  the  limits  of  the  morn 

Through  many  an  hostile  anarchy ! 
At  length  they  wept  aloud  and  cried,  "  The  sea  !  the  sea  !" 
Through  exile,  persecution  and  despair 

Rome  was,  and  young  Atlantis  shall  become 
The  wonder  or  the  teiror  or  the  tomb 
Of  all  whose  step  wakes  power  lulled  in  her  savage  lair: 
But  Greece  was  as  a  hermit  child. 
Whose  fairest  thoughts  and  limbs  were  built 
To  woman's  growth,  by  dreams  so  mild 
She  knew  not  pain  or  guilt ; 
And  now,  O  Victory,  blush  !  and  Empire,  tremble. 
When  ye  desert  the  free  ! 
If  Greece  must  be 
A  wreck,  yet  shall  its  fragments  reassemble, 
And  build  themselves  again  impregnably 

In  a  diviner  clime. 
To  Amphionic  music,  on  some  cape  sublime. 
Which  frowns  above  the  idle  foam  of  Time. 

SEMJCHORUS    I. 

Let  the  tyrants  rule  the  desert  they  have  made  ; 

Let  the  free  possess  the  paradise  they  claim  ; 
Be  the  fortune  of  our  fierce  oppressors  weighed 

With  our  ruin,  our  resistance  and  our  name  ! 


HELLAS.  419 


SEMICHORUS   II. 

Onr  dead  shall  be  the  seed  of  their  decay, 
Our  survivors  be  the  shadows  of  their  pride, 

Our  adversity  a  dream  to  pass  away  — 
Their  dishonor  a  remembrance  to  abide  ! 

VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory  !    The  bought  Britou  sends 

The  keys  of  ocean  to  the  Islamite. 

Now  shall  the  blazon  of  the  cross  be  vailed, 

And  British  skill  directing  Othmau  might, 

Thunder-strike  rebel  victory.     O  keep  holy 

This  jubilee  of  unrevenged  blood  ! 

Kill !  crush  !  despoil !     Let  not  a  Greek  escape  ! 

SEMICHORUS    1. 

Darkness  has  dawned  in  the  East 

Ou  the  noon  of  time  : 
The  death-birds  descend  to  their  feast, 

From  the  hnnarj'  clime. 
Let  Freedom  and  Peace  flee  far 

To  a  sunnier  strand, 
And  fbllow^  Love's  iblding  star 

To  the  Evening  land  \'* 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

The  young  moon  has  fed 
Her  exhausted  horn 
With  the  sunset's  fire  : 
The  weak  day  is  dead, 
But  the  night  is  not  born  ; 
And,  like  loveliness  panting  with  wild  desire, 
While  it  trembles  with  fear  and  delight, 
Hesperus  flies  from  awakening  night. 
And  pants  in  its  beauty  and  speed  with  light 
Fast-flashing,  soft  and  bright. 
Thou  beacon  of  love  !  thou  lamp  of  the  free  ! 

Guide  us  far,  far  away, 
To  climes  where  now,  vailed  by  the  ardor  of  day, 
Thou  art  hidden 
From  waves  on  which  weary  noon 
Faints  in  her  summer  swoon, 
Between  kingless  continents,  sinless  as  Edea, 
Around  mountains  and  islands  inviolably 
Pranked  on  the  sapphire  sea. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Through  the  sunset  of  hope, 
Like  the  shapes  of  a  dream. 
What  paradise  islands  of  glory  gleam 

Beneath  heaven's  cope. 
Their  shadows  more  clear  float  by  — 
The  sound  of  their  oceans,  the  light  of  their  sky. 
The  music  and  iiagrauce  their  solitudes  breathe, 
Burst  like  morning  on  dreanis.  or  like  heaven  on  death, 

*  TlUs  begins  the  allusion  to  Americfv 


420 


HELLAS. 

Through  the  walls  of  our  prison  ; 

And  Greece,  which  was  dead,  is  arisen  ! 

CHORUS. 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  ontworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  its  fountains 

Against  the  morning  t^tar. 
Where  fairer  Tempos  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 

And  loves  and  weeps  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

O  write  no  moie  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free  : 

Although  a  subtler  sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendor  of  its  prime  ; 
And  leave,  if  nau!.*ht  so  bright  may  live. 
All  earth  can  take  or  heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose. 
Than  many  unsubdued  : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers. 

But  votive  tears,  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return? 

Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease  !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


KND    OF   HELLAS. 


NOTE    ON    HELLAS 

BY    MRS.   SHELLEY. 


The  south  of  Europe  was  in  a  state  of  great  political  excitement  at 
the  beginning  of  the  year  1821.  The  Spanish  revolution  had  been  a 
signal  to  Italy  —  secret  societies  were  formed  —  and  when  Naples  rose 
to  declare  the  constitution,  the  call  was  responded  to  from  Brundusium 
to  the  foot  of  the  Alps.  Early  in  1821,  the  Austrians  poured  their  ar- 
mies into  the  peninsula.  At  first  their  coming  rather  seemed  to  add 
energy  and  resolution  to  a  people  long  enslaved.  The  Piedmontese 
asserted  their  freedom  ;  Genoa  threw  off  the  yoke  of  the  king  of  Sar- 
dinia ;  and,  as  if  in  playful  imitation,  the  people  of  the  little  slate  of  Mas- 
sa  and  Carrara  gave  the  congi  to  their  sovereign  and  set  up  a  republic. 

Tuscany  alone  was  perfectly  tranquil.  It  was  said  that  the  Austrian 
minister  presented  a  list  of  sixty  carbonari  to  the  grand-duke,  urging 
their  imprisonment ;  and  the  grand-duke  replied,  "  I  do  not  know 
whether  these  sixty  men  are  carbonari,  but  I  know  if  I  imprison  them, 
I  shall  directly  have  sixty  thousand  start  up."  But  though  the  Tus- 
cans had  no  desire  to  disturb  the  paternal  government  beneath  whose 
shelter  they  slumbered,  they  regarded  the  progress  of  the  various 
Italian  revolutions  with  intense  interest,  and  hatred  for  the  Austrian 
was  warm  in  every  bosom.  But  they  had  slender  hopes  ;  they  knew 
that  the  Neapolitans  would  offer  no  fit  resistance  to  tne  regular  Ger- 
man troops,  and  that  the  overthrow  of  the  constitution  in  Naples  would 
act  as  a  decisive  blow  against  all  struggles  for  liberty  in  Italy. 

We  have  seen  the  rise  and  progress  of  reform.  But  the  Holy  Alli- 
ance was  alive  and  active  in  those  days,  and  few  could  dream  of  the 
peaceful  triumph  of  liberty.  It  seemed  then  that  the  armed  assertion 
of  freedom  in  the  south  of  Europe  was  the  only  hope  of  the  liberals, 
as,  if  it  prevailed,  the  nations  of  the  north  would  imitate  the  example. 
Happily  the  reverse  has  proved  the  fact.  The  countries  accustomed 
to  the  exercise  of  the  privileges  of  freemen  to  a  limited  extent,  have 
extended  and  are  extending  these  limits.  Freedom  and  knowledge 
have  now  a  chance  of  proceeding  hand  in  hand  ;  and  if  it  continue  thus, 
we  may  hope  for  the  durability  of  both.  Then,  as  I  have  said,  in  1821, 
Shelley,  as  well  as  every  other  lover  of  liberty,  looked  upon  the  strug- 
gles in  Spain  and  Italy  as  decisive  of  iho  destinies  of  the  world,  proba- 
bly for  centuries  to  come.  The  interest  he  took  in  the  progress  of 
affairs  was  intense.  When  Genoa  declared  itself  free,  his  hopes  were 
at  their  highest.  Day  after  day,  he  read  the  bulletins  of  the  Austrian 
army,  and  sought  eagerly  to  gather  tokens  of  its  defeat.  lie  heard  of 
the  revolt  of  Genoa  with  emotions  of  transport.  His  whole  heart  and 
soul  were  in  the  tiiumph  of  their  cause.  We  were  living  at  Pisa  at 
that  time  ;  and  several  well-informed  Italians,  at  the  head  of  whom  we 


422  NOTE    ON    HELLAS. 

may  place  the  celebrated  Vacca,  were  accustomed  to  seek  for  sympa- 
thy in  iheir  hopes  in  Shelley;  they  did  not  find  such  for  the  despair 
they  too  generally  experienced,  founded  on  contempt  for  their  south- 
ern countrymen. 

While  the  fate  of  the  progress  of  the  Austrian  armies  then  invading 
Naples,  was  yet  in  suspense,  the  news  of  another  revolution  filled  him 
with  exultation.  We  liad  formed  the  acquaintance  at  Pisa  of  several 
Constantinopolitan  Greeks,  of  the  family  of  Prince  Caradja,  formerly 
hospodar  of  Wailachia,  who,  hearing  that  tiie  bowstring,  the  accus- 
tomed finale  of  liis  viceroyalty,  was  on  the  road  to  him,  escaped  with 
his  treasures,  and  took  up  his  abode  in  Tuscany.  Among  these  was 
the  gentleman  to  whom  the  drama  of  •  Hellas'  is  dedicated.  Princ6 
Mavrocordato  was  warmed  by  those  aspirations  for  the  independence 
of  his  country,  which  filled  the  hearts  of  many  of  his  countrymen.  He 
often  intimated  the  possibility  of  an  insurrection  in  Greece  ;  but  we 
had  no  idea  of  its  being  so  near  at  hand,  when,  on  the  1st  of  April, 
18-2J,he  called  on  Shelley,  bringing  the  proclamation  of  his  cousin, 
Prince  Ipsilanti,  and  radiant  with  exultation  and  delight,  declared  that 
henceforth  Greece  would  be  free. 

Shelley  had  hymned  the  dawn  of  liberty  in  Spain  and  Naples,  in 
two  odes,  dictated  by  the  warmest  enthusiasm  ;  he  felt  himself  natu- 
rally impelled  lo  decorate  with  poetry  the  uprise  of  the  descendants 
of  that  people  whose  works  he  regarded  witii  deep  admiration  ;  and  to 
adopt  the  vaticin^tory  character  in  prophesying  their  success.  '  Hel- 
las' was  written  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm.  It  is  curious  to  retnark 
how  well  he  overcomes  the  difficulty  of  forming  a  drama  out  of  .such 
scant  materials.  His  prophecies,  indeed,  came  true  in  their  general, 
not  their  particular  purport.  He  did  not  foresee  the  death  of  Lord 
Londonderry,  which  was  to  be  the  epoch  of  a  change  in  English  poli- 
tics, particularly  as  regarded  foreign  afl"airs  ;  nor  that  the  navy  of  his 
country  would  fight  for  instead  of  against  the  Greeks  ;  and  by  the  battle 
of  Navarino  secure  their  enfranchisement  from  the  I'urks  Almost 
against  reason,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  he  resolved  to  believe  that 
Greece  would  prove  triumphant  ;  and  in  this  spirit,  auguring  ultimate 
good,  yet  grieving  over  the  vicissitudes  to  be  endured  in  the  interval, 
he  composed  his  drama. 

The  chronological  order  to  be  observed  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
remaining  poems,  is  interrupted  here  for  the  sake  of  comprising  his 
three  dramas  in  one  volume.  '  Hellas'  was  among  the  last  of  liis 
compositions,  and  is  among  the  most  beautiful.  The  choruses  are 
singularly  imaginative,  and  melodious  in  their  versification.  There 
are  some  stanzas  that  beautifully  exemplify  Shelley's  peculiar  style  ; 
as,  for  instance,  the  assertion  of  the  intellectual  empire  which  must  be 
forever  the  inheritance  of  the  country  of  Homer,  Sophocles  and  Plato  : 

"  But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 
Built  below  the  tide  of  war ; 
Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 
Of  thought  and  its  eternity." 
And  again,  that  philosophical  truth  felicitously  imaged  forth  — 
"  Revenge  and  wrong  bring  forth  their  kind, 
The  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are  ; 
Their  den  is  in  the  guilty  mind. 
And  conscience  feeds  them  with  despair." 
The  conclusion  of  the  last  chorus  is  among  the  most  beautiful  of  his 
lyrics  ;  the  imagery  is  distinct  and  majestic  ;  the  prophecy,  such  as 
poets  love  to  dwell  upon,  the  regeneration  of  mankind  —  and  that  re- 
gei  eration  reflecting  back  splendor  on  the  foregone  time,  from  which 
it  inherits  so  much  of  intellectual  wealth,  and  memory  of  past  virtu- 
ous deeds,  as  must  render  the  possession  of  happiness  and  peace  of 
tenfold  value. 


EARLY  POEMS, 


MUTABILITY. 

"We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight  moon ; 

How  restlessly  they  speed,  and  gleam,  and  quiver, 
Streaking  the  darkness  radiantly  !  —  yet  soon 

Night  closes  round,  and  they  are  lost  for  ever  : 

Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whose  dissonant  strings 
Give  various  response  to  each  varying  blast, 

To  whose  frail  frame  no  second  motion  brings 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  last. 

We  rest  —  A  dream  has  power  to  poison  sleep  ; 

We  rise  —  One  wandering  thought  pollutes  the  day 
We  feel,  conceive,  or  reason,  laugh  or  weep  ; 

Embrace  fond  woe  or  cast  our  cares  away : 

It  is  the  same  !     For,  be  it  joy  or  sorrow. 

The  path  of  its  departure  still  is  free  ; 
Man's  yesterday  may  ne'er  be  like  his  morrow ; 

Naught  may  endure  but  Mutability. 


ON  DEATH. 

"  There  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom,  in  the  grave,  whitlier  tliou 
CO«st." — EccUtiastet. 

The  pale,  the  cold  and  the  moony  smile 
Which  the  meteor  beam  of  a  starless  night 

Sheds  on  a   lonely  and  sea-girt  isle, 

Ere  the  dawning  of  morn's  undoubted  light. 

Is  the  Hame  of  life  so  fickle  and  wan 

That  Hits  round  our  steps  till  their  strength  is  gone. 


424  EARLY    POEiMS. 

O  man  !  hold  thee  on  in  courage  of  soul 

Through  the  stormy  shades  of  thy  worldly  way, 

And  the  billows  of  cloud  that  around  thee  roll 
Shall  sleep  in  the  light  of  a  wondrous  day, 

Where  hell  and  heaven  shall  leave  thee  free 

To  the  universe  of  destiny. 

This  world  is  the  nurse  of  all  we  know, 
This  world  is  the  mother  of  all  we  feel, 

And  the  coming  of  death  is  a  fearful  blow- 
To  a  brain  unencompassed  with  nerves  of  steel ; 

When  all  that  we  know  or  feel  or  see 

Shall  pass  like  an  unreal  mystery. 

The  secret  things  of  the  grave  are  there, 
Where  all  but  this  frame  must  surely  be, 

Though  the  fine-wrought  eye  and  the  wondrous  ear 
No  longer  will  live  to  hear  or  to  see 

All  that  is  great  and  all  that  is  strange 

In  the  boundless  realm  of  unending  change. 

Who  telleth  a  tale  of  unspeaking  death  ? 

Who  lifteth  the  vail  of  what  is  to  come  ? 
Who  painteth  the  shadows  that  are  beneath 

The  wide-winding  caves  of  the  peopled  tomb  ? 
Or  uniteth  the  hopes  of  what  shall  be 
With  the  fears  and  the  love  for  that  which  we  see  ? 


TO  HARRIET  ******. 

Whose  is  the  love  that,  gleaming  through  the  world, 
Wards  oiF  the  poisonous  arrow^  of  its  scorn  ? 
Whose  is  the  warm  and  partial  praise, 
Virtue's  most  sweet  reward  ? 

Beneath  whose  looks  did  my  reviving  soul 
Riper  in  truth  and  virtuous  daring  grow  ? 
Whose  eyes  have  I  gazed  fondly  on. 
And  loved  mankind  the  more  ? 

Hairiet !  on  thine  :  thou  wert  my  purer  mind ; 

Thou  wert  the  inspiration  of  my  song  ; 

Thine  are  these  early  wilding  flowers. 

Though  garlanded  by  me.  x 

Then  press  into  thy  breast  this  pledge  of  love, 

And  knovs^,  though  time  may  change  and  years  may  roll. 

Each  flow'ret  gathered  in  my  heart 

It  consecrates  to  thine. 


EARLY    POEMS.  425 

TO  *  *  *  *. 
AAKPYEI  AIOISQ  nOTMON  AHOTMON. 

Oh  !  there  are  spirits  in  the  air, 

And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 
And  gentle  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 
As  star-beams  among  twilight  trees : 
Such  lovely  ministers  to   meet 
Oft  hast  thou  turned  from  men  thy  lonely  feet. 

With  mountain  winds,  and  babbling  springs, 

And  mountain  seas,  that  are  the  voice 
Of  these  inexplicable  things, 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice 
When  they  did  answer  thee  ;  but  they 
Cast,  like  a  worthless  boon,  thy  love  away. 

And  thou  hast  sought  iu  starry  eyes 

Beams  that  were  never  meant  for  thine, 
Another's  w^ealth  ;  —  tame  sacrifice 
To  a  fond  faith  !  still  dost  thou  pine  ? 
Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands. 
Voice,  looks,  or  lips,  may  answer  thy  demands  ? 

Ah  !  wherefore  didst  thou  build  thine  hope 
On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy  ? 
Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 

Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts  to  thee? 
That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 
Could  steal  the  power  to  wind  thee  in  their  wiles. 

Yes,  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled 

Whose  falsehood  left  thee  broken-hearted  ; 
The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead ; 

Night's  ghost  and  dreams  have  now  departed  ; 
Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee, 
But  changed  to  a  foul  fiend  through  misery. 

This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 

Beside  thee  like  thy  shadow  hangs, 
Dream  not  to  chase  ;  the  mad  endeavor 
Would  scourge  thee  to  severer  pangs. 
Be  as  thou  art.     Thy  .settled  fate, 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggravate. 


STANZAS.— APRIL,  1814. 

Away  !  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon. 

Rapid  clouds  have  drnnk  the  last  pale  beam  of  even: 

Away  !  the  gathering  winds  will  call  the  darkness  soon 

And  profoundest  midnight  shroud  the  serene  lights  of  heaven. 


426  EARLY    POEMS. 

Pause  not !    The  time  is  past  !    Every  voice  cries,  Away  ! 

Tempt  not  vi'ilh  one  last  glance  thy  friend's  ungentle  mood  : 
Thy  lover's  eye,  so  glazed  and  cold,  dares  not  entreat  thy  stay : 

Duty  and  dereliction  guide  thee  back  to  solitude. 

Away,  away  !  to  thy  sad  and  silent  home  ; 

Pour  bitter  tears  on  its  desolated  hearth  ; 
Watch  the  dim  shades  as  like  ghosts  they  go  and  come, 

And  complicate  strange  webs  of  melancholy  mirth. 
The  leaves  of  wasted  autumn  woods  shall  float  around  thine  head  ; 

The  blooms  of  dewy  spring  shall  gleam  beneath  thy  feet : 
But  thy  soul  or  this  world  must  fade  in  the  frost  that  binds  the 
dead. 

Ere  midnight's  frown  and  morning's  smile,  ere  thou  and  peace 
may  meet. 

The  cloud-shadows  of  midnight  possess  their  own  repose, 

For  the  weary  winds  are  silent,  or  the  moon  is  in  the  deep  ; 
Some  respite  to  its  turbulence  unresting  ocean  knows  ; 

Whatever  moves  or  toils  or  grieves  hath  its  appointed  sleep. 
Thou  in  the  grave  shalt  rest  —  yet  till  the  phantoms  flee 

Which  that  house  and  heath  and  garden  made  dear  to  thee 
erewhile, 
Thy  remembrance  and  repentance  and  deep  musings  are  not  free 

From  the  music  of  two  voices,  and  the  light  of  one  sweet  smile. 


A  SUMMER-EVENING  CHURCHYARD,  LECHDALE, 
GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 

Thk  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere 

Each  vapor  that  obscured  the  sunset's  ray  ; 
And  pallid  evening  twines  its  beaming  hair 

In  duskier  braids  around  the  languid  eyes  of  day: 
Silence  and  twilight,  unbeloved  of  men. 
Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest  glen. 

They  breathe  their  spells  toward  the  departing  day, 

Encompassing  the  earth,  air,  stars  and  sea; 
Light,  sound  and  motion  own  the  potent  sway, 

Responding  to  the  charm  with  its  own  mystery. 
The  winds  are  still,  or  the  dry  churchtower  grass 
Knows  not  their  gentle  motions  as  they  pass. 

Thou,  too,  aerial  pile  !  whose  pinnacles 

Point  from  one  .shrine  like  pyramids  of  fire, 
Obeye.st  in  silence  their  sweet  solemn  spells. 

Clothing  in  hues  of  heaven  thy  dim  and  distant  spire, 
Around  whose  lessening  and  invisible  height 
Gather  among  the  stars  the  clouds  of  night. 


EARLY    POEMS.  427 

The  dead  are  sleeping  in  their  sepulchres  : 

And,  mouldering  as  they  sleep,  a  thrilling  sound, 

Half  sense,  half  thought,  among  the  darkness  stirs, 

Breathed  from  their  wormy  beds  all  living  things  around, 

And  mingling  with  the  still  night  and  mute  sky 

Its  awful  hush  is  felt  inaudibly. 

Thus  solemnized  and  softened,  death  is  mild 

And  terrorless  as  this  serenest  night : 
Here  could  I  hope,  like  some  inquiring  child 

Sporting  on  graves,  that  death  did  hide  from  human  sight 
Sweet  secrets,  or  beside  its  breathless  sleep 
That  loveliest  dreams  perpetual  watch  did  keep. 


LINES. 

The  cold  earth  slept  below, 
Above  the  cold  shy  shone. 

And  all  around 

With  a  chilling  sound. 
From  caves  of  ice  and  fields  of  snow 
The  breath  of  night  like  death  did  flow 

Beneath  the  sinking  moon. 

'    The  wintry  hedge  was  black, 
The  green  grass  was  not  seen, 
The  birds  did  rest 
On  the  bare  thorn's  breast 
Whose  roots  beside  the  pathway  track. 
Had  bound  their  folds  o'er  many  a  crack 
Which  the  frost  had  made  between. 

Thine  eyes  glowed  in  the  glare 
Of  the  moon's  dying  light, 

As  a  fen-fire's  beam 

On  a  sluggish  stream 
Gleams  dimly  —  so  the  moon  shone  there, 
And  it  yellowed  the  strings  of  thy  tangled  hair 

That  shook  in  the  wind  of  night. 

The  moon  made  thy  lips  pale,  beloved ; 
The  wind  made  thy  bosom  chill ; 

The  night  did  shed 

On  tliy  dear  head 
Its  frozen  dew,  and  thou  didst  lie 
Where  the  bitter  breath  of  the  naked  sky 

Might  visit  thee  at  will. 

November,  1815. 


428  EARLY    POEMS. 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 

Poet  of  Nature,  Ihou  hast  wept  to  know 
That  ihinsfs  depart  which  never  inay  return  : 
Childhood  and  youth,  friendship  and  love's  first  glow, 
Have  fled  like  sweet  dreams,  leaving  thee  to  mourn. 
These  common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is  mine, 
Which  thou  too  feel'st ;  yet  I  alone  deplore. 
Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  whose  light  did  shine 
On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar  : 
Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock-built  refuge  stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude  ; 
In  honored  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty  — 
De-serting  these,  thou  leavest  me  to  grieve. 
Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldst  cease  to  be. 


PEELINGS  OF  A  REPUBLICAN  ON  THE  FALL  OF 
BONAPARTE. 

I  HATED  thee,  fallen  tyrant !     I  did  groan 

To  think  that  a  most  ambitious  .slave. 

Like  thou,  shouldst  dance  and  revel  on  the  grave 

Of  Liberty.     Thou  might.it  have  built  thy  throne 

Where  it  had  stood  even  now  :  thou  didst  prefer 

A  frail  and  bloody  pomp,  which  time  hast  swept 

In  fragments  toward  oblivion.     Massacre. 

For  this  I  prayed,  would  on  thy  sleep  have  crept, 

Treason  and  Slavery,  Rapine,  Fear  and  Lust, 

And  stifled  thee,  their  minister.     I  know 

Too  late,  since  thou  and  France  are  in  the  dust, 

Than  Virtue  owns  a  more  eternal  foe 

Than  force  or  fraud  :  old  Custom,  legal  Crime, 

And  bloody  Faith,  the  foulest  birth  of  time. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN   1816. 


THE  SUNSET. 

Thek£  late  was  one,  within  whose  subtle  being. 
As  light  and  w^ind  within  some  delicate  cloud 
That  fades  aniid  the  blue  noon's  burning  sky 
Genius  and  death  contended.     None  may  know 
The  sweetness  of  the  joy  which  made  his  breath 
Fail,  like  the  trances  of  the  summer  air. 
When,  with  the  lady  of  his  love,  who  then 
First  knew  the  unreserve  of  mingled  being, 
He  vs'^alked  along  the  pathway  of  a  field 
Which  to  the  east  a  hoar  wood  shadowed  o'er, 
But  to  the  west  was  open  to  the  sky. 
There  now  the  sun  had  sunk,  but  lines  of  gold 
Hung  on  the  ashen  clouds,  and  on  the  points 
Of  the  far  level  grass  and  nodding  flowers 
And  the  old  dandelion's  hoary  beard, 
And,  mingled  with  the  shades  of  twilight,  lay 
On  the  brown  massy  woods  —  and  in  the  east 
The  broad  and  burning  moon  lingeringly  rose 
Between  the  black  trui^iks  of  the  crow^ded  trees. 
While  the  faint  stars  were  gathering  overhead.— 
"  Is  it  not  strange,  I.sabel,"  said  the  youth, 
"  I  never  saw  the  sun  ?     We  will  walk  here 
To-morrow :  thou  shalt  look  on  it  with  me," 
That  night  the  youth  and  lady  mingled  lay 
In  love  and  sleep  —  but  when  the  morning  came 
The  lady  found  her  lover  dead  and  cold  ! 
Let  none  believe  that  God  in  mercy  gave 
That  stroke.     The  lady  died  not.  nor  grew  wild, 
But  year  by  year  lived  on  —  in  truth  I  think 
Her  gentlene.s8  and  patience  and  sad  smiles. 
And  that  she  did  not  die,  but  lived  to  tend 
Her  aged  father,  were  a  kind  of  madness. 
If  madness  'tis  to  be  unlike  the  world. 


430     HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 

For  but  to  see  her  were  to  read  the  tale 
Woven  by  some  subtlest  bard,  to  make  hard  hearts 
Dissolve  away  in  wisdom  working  grief : 
Her  eyelashes  were  torn  away  with  tears, 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  were  like  things  dead  —  so  pale  ; 
Her  hands  were  thin,  and  through  their  wandering  veins 
And  weak  articulations  niight  be  seen 
Day's  ruddy  light.     The  tomb  of  thy  dead  self 
Which  one  vexed  ghost  inhabits,  night  and  day, 
Is  all,  lost  child,  that  now  remains  of  thee  ! 
"  Inheritor  of  more  than  earth  can  give, 
Passionless  calm  and  silence  unreproved, 
Whether  the  dead  find,  oh,  not  sleep  !  but  rest. 
And  are  the  uncomplaining  things  they  seem, 
Or  live,  or  drop  in  the  deep  sea  of  Love  : 
Oh,  that  like  thine,  mine  epitaph  were  —  Peace  !" 
This  was  the  only  moan  she  ever  made. 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  tho'  unseen  among  us  ;  visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower  •, 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain  shower, 

It  visits  w^ith  inconstant  glance 

Each  human  heart  and  countenance  ; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening. 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, 

Like  memory  of  music  fled. 

Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art  thou  gone  ? 

Why  dost  thou  pass  aw^ay,  and  leave  our  state, 

This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river  ; 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown ; 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom,  why  man  has  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given  : 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost,  and  Heaven, 

Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor  : 

Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail  to  sever. 


HYMN    TO    INTELLECTUAL    BKAUTY.  431 

From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 

Doubt,  chance  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone,  like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 

Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 

Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 

Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream. 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,  hope  and  self-esteem,  like  clouds,  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 
Man  were  immortal  and  omnipotent. 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  .state  within  his  heart 

Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 

That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes  ; 
Thou,  that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment. 

Like  darkness  to  a  dying  tiame  ! 

Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came  : 

Depart  not,  lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  gho.sts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin. 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  -which  our  youth  is  fed  : 

I  was  not  heard  ;  I  saw  them  not ; 

When  mu.sing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me  ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy  ! 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine  :  have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave  :  they  have  in  visioned  bowers 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 

Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night : 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow. 

Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 

This  world  from  its  dark  slavery. 

That  thou,  O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  live  whate'er  these  words  can  not  express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 

When  noon  is  past :  there  is  a  harmony 

In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky. 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  nor  seen. 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 


432  MONT    BLANC. 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 

Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 
Its  calm,  to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 

To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


MONT  BLANC. 

LINES   WRITTEN    IN   THE   VALE    OF    CHAMOUNI. 
I. 

The  everlasting  universe  of  things 

Flows  through  the  mind,  and  rolls  its  rapid  waves, 

Now  dark  —  now  glittering  —  now  reflecting  gloom - 

Now  lending  splendor,  where  from  secret  springs 

The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute  brings 

Of  waters  —  with  a  sound  but  half  its  own, 

Such  as  a  feeble  brook  will  oft  assume 

In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains  lone. 

Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  for  ever. 

Where  woods  and  winds  contend,  and  a  vast  river 

Over  its  rocks  ceaselessly  bursts  and  raves. 


Thus  thou,  ravine  of  Arve  —  dark,  deep  ravine  — 

Thou  many-colored,  many-voiced  vale. 

Over  w^hose  pines  and  crags  and  caverns  sail 

Fast  clouds,  shadows  and  sunbeams  ;  awful  scene  ! 

Where  Power  in  likeness  of  the  Arve  comes  down 

From  the  ice-gulfs  that  gird  his  secret  throne, 

Bursting  through  these  dark  mountains  like  the  flame 

Of  lightning  througli  the  tempest ;  thou  dost  lie, 

The  giant  brood  of  pines  around  thee  clinging, 

Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devotion 

The  chainless  winds  still  come  and  ever  came 

To  drink  their  odors,  and  their  mighty  swinging 

To  hear  —  an  old  and  solemn  harmony  ; 

Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretched  across  the  sweep 

Of  the  ethereal  waterfall,  whose  vail 

Exjbes  some  unsculptured  image  ;  the  strange  sleep 

Which,  v^'hen  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail. 

Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity  ; 

Thy  caverns  echoing  to  the  Arve's  commotion 

A  loud,  lone  sound,  no  other  sound  can  tame  ; 

Thou  an  pervaded  with  that  ceaseless  motion, 

Thou  art  the  patli  of  that  unresting  sound  — 


MONT    BLANC. 

Dizzy  ravine  !  and  when  I  gaze  on  thee 

I  seem  as  in  a  trance  sublime  and  strange 

To  muse  on  my  own  separate  fantasy, 

My  own,  my  human  mind,  which  passively 

Now  renders  and  receives  fast  influencings, 

Holding  an  unremitting  interchange 

With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around  ; 

One  legion  of  wild  thoughts,  whose  wandering  wings 

Now  float  above  thy  darkness,  and  now  rest 

Where  that  or  thou  art  no  unbidden  guest, 

In  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 

Seeking  among  the  shadows  that  pass  by 

Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are,  some  shade  of  thee, 

Some  phantom,  some  faint  image  ;  till  the  breast 

From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou  art  there  ! 


Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 
Visit  the  soul  in  sleep  —  that  death  is  slumber, 
And  that  its  shapes  the  busy  thoughts  outnumber 
Of  those  who  wake  and  live.  —  I  look  on  high  : 
Has  some  unknown  omnipotence  unfurled 
The  vail  of  life  and  death,  or  do  I  lie 
In  dream,  and  does  the  mightier  world  of  sleep 
Speed  far  around  and  inaccessibly 
Its  circles  ?     For  the  very  spirit  fails, 
Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep  to  steep 
That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales ! 
Far,  far  above,  piercing  the  infinite  sky, 
Mont  Blanc  appears  —  still,  snowy  and  serene  — 
Its  subject  mountains  their  unearthly  forms 
Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock  ;  broad  vales  between 
Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps. 
Blue  as  the  overhanging  heaven,  that  spread 
And  wind  among  the  accumulated  steeps  ; 
A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  alone. 
Save  when  the  eagle  brings  some  hunter's  bone, 
And  the  wolf  tracks  her  there  —  how  hideously 
Its  shapes  are  heaped  around  !  rude,  bare  and  high, 
Ghastly  and  scarred  and  riven.     Is  this  the  scene 
Where  the  old  Earthquake-demon  taught  her  young 
Ruin  ?     Were  these  their  toys  ?  or  did  "a  sea 
Of  fire  envelop  once  this  silent  snow  ? 
None  can  reply  —  all  seems  eternal  now. 
The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 
Which  teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  so  mild, 
So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be 
But  for  such  faith  with  nature  reconciled  ; 
Thou  hast  a  voice,  great  Mountain,  to  repeal 
Large  codes  of  fraud  and  woe  ;  not  understood 
By  all,  but  which  the  wise  and  great  and  good 
Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 
28 


433 


434  MONT    BLANC. 


The  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests  and  the  streams. 

Ocean,  and  all  the  living  things  that  dwell 

Within  the  daedal  earth  —  lightning  and  rain, 

Earthquake  and  fiery  flood  and  hurricane, 

The  torpor  of  the  year  when  feeble  dreams 

Visit  the  hidden  buds,  or  dreamless  sleep 

Holds  every  future  leaf  and  flower  —  the  bound 

With  which  from  that  detested  trance  they  leap ; 

The  w^orks  and  ways  of  man.  their  death  and  birth, 

And  that  of  him  and  all  that  his  may  be  ; 

All  things  that  move  and  breathe  with  toil  and  sound 

Are  born  and  die,  revolve,  subside  and  swell. 

Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity 

Remote,  serene  and  inaccessible  : 

And  this,  the  naked  countenance  of  earth, 

On  which  I  gaze,  even  these  primeval  mountains, 

Teach  the  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers  creep 

Like  snakes  that  watch  their  prey,  from  their  far  fountains, 

Slowly  rolling  on  ;  there,  many  a  precipice 

Frost  and  the  sun  in  scorn  of  mortal  power 

Have  piled  —  dome,  pyramid  and  pinnacle, 

A  city  of  death,  distinct  with  many  a  tower 

And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice. 

Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of  ruin 

Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of  the  sky 

Rolls  its  perpetual  stream  ;  vast  pines  are  strewing 

Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil 

Branchless  and  shattered  stand  ;  the  rocks,  drawn  down 

From  yon  remotest  waste,  have  overthrown 

The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world, 

Never  to  be  reclaimed.     The  dwelling-place 

Of  insects,  beasts  and  birds,  becomes  its  spoil ; 

Their  food  and  their  retreat  for  ever  gone, 

So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lo.st.     The  race 

Of  man  flies  far  in  dread  ;  his  work  and  dwelling 

Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tempest's  stream, 

And  their  place  is  not  known.     Below  vast  caves 

Shine  in  the  rushing  torrent's  restless  gleam, 

Which  from  those  secret  chasms  in  tumult  welling 

Meet  in  the  vale,  and  one  majestic  river, 

The  breath  and  blood  ol'  distant  lands,  for  ever 

Rolls  its  loud  waters  to  the  ocean-waves, 

Breathes  its  swift  vapors  to  the  circling  air. 


Mont  Blanc  yet  gleams  on  high  :  the  power  is  there, 
The  still  and  solemn  power  of  many  sights 
And  many  sounds,  and  much  of  life  and  death. 
In  the  calm  darkness  of  the  moonless  nights, 
In  the  lone  glare  of  day,  the  snows  descend 
Upon  that  mountain  ;  none  beholds  them  there, 


MONT    BLANC.  '  435 

Nor  when  the  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking  snn, 

Or  the  starbeams  dart  through  them  :  winds  contend 

Silently  there,  and  heap  the  snow  with  breath 

Rapid  and  strong,  but  silently  !     Its  home 

The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 

Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapor  broods 

Over  the  snow.     The  secret  strength  of  things 

Which  governs  thought,  and  to  the  infinite  dome 

Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee  ! 

And  what  w^ere  thou  ajid  earth  and  stars  and  sea, 

If  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 

Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy  ? 

Suritztrland,  June  33,  1816. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1817 


PRINCE  ATHANASE. 

A   TRAGMENT. 
PART    I. 

There  was  a  youth,  who,  as  with  toil  and  travel, 
Had  grown  uuite  weak  and  gray  before  his  time  ; 
Nor  any  could  the  restless  griefs  unravel 

Which  burned  within  him,  withering  up  his  prime 
And  goading  him,  like  fiends,  from  land  to  land. 
Not  his  the  load  of  any  secret  crime. 

For  naught  of  ill  his  heart  could  understand, 
But  pity  and  wild  sorrow  for  the  same  ; 
Not  his  the  thirst  for  glory  or  command, 

Baffled  with  blast  of  hope-consuming  shame  ; 
Nor  evil  joys  which  fire  the  vulgar  breast. 
And  quench  in  speedy  smoke  its  feeble  flame. 

Had  left  within  his  soul  the  dark  unrest : 
Nor  what  religion  fables  of  the  grave 
Feared  he  —  Philosophy's  accepted  guest. 

For  none  than  he  a  purer  heart  could  have. 

Or  that  loved  good  more  for  itself  alone  ; 

Of  naught  in  heaven  or  earth  was  he  the  slave. 

W"hat  sorrow  strange  and  shadowy  and  unknown 
Sent  him,  a  hopeless  wanderer,  through  mankind  1  - 
If  with  a  human  sadness  he  did  groan, 


PRINCE    ATHANASE.  437 

He  had  a  gentle,  yet  aspiring  mind ; 
Just,  innocent,  with  varied  learning  fed, 
And  such  a  glorious  consolation  find 

In  others'  joy,  when  all  their  own  is  dead  : 
He  loved,  and  labored  for  his  kind  in  grief, 
And  yet,  unlike  all  others,  it  is  said, 

That  from  such  toil  he  never  found  relief. 
Although  a  child  of  fortune  and  of  power. 
Of  an  ancestral  name  the  orphan  chief. 

His  soul  had  wedded  wisdom,  and  her  dower 
Is  love  and  justice,  clothed  in  which  he  sate 
Apart  from  men.  as  in  a  lonely  tower. 

Pitying  the  tumult  of  their  dark  estate  — 

Yet  even  in  youth  did  he  not  e'er  abuse 

The  strength  of  wealth  or  thought,  to  consecrate 

Those  false  opinions  which  the  harsh  rich  use 
To  blind  the  world  they  famish  for  their  pride  ; 
Nor  did  he  hold  from  any  man  his  dues, 

But  like  a  steward  in  honest  dealings  tried , 

With  those  who  toiled  and  wept,  the  poor  and  wise. 

His  riches  and  his  cares  he  did  divide. 

Fearless  he  was,  and  scorning  all  di.sguise, 

What  he  dared  do  or  think,  though  men  might  start, 

He  spoke  with  mild  yet  una  verted  eyes  ; 

Liberal  he  was  of  soul,  and  frank  of  heart. 
And  to  his  many  friends  —  all  loved  liira  w^ell  — 
Whate'er  he  knew  or  felt  he  would  impart, 

If  words  he  found  those  inmost  thoughts  to  tell ; 
If  not,  he  smiled  or  wept ;  and  his  vk'eak  foes 
He  neither  spurned  nor  hated,  though  with  fell 

And  mortal  hate  their  thou.«and  voices  rose, 
They  passed  like  aimless  arrow.-,  from  his  ear. — 
Nor  did  his  heart  or  mind  its  portal  close 

To  those,  or  them,  or  any,  whom  life's  sphere 
May  comprehend  within  its  wide  array. 
What  sadness  made  that  vernal  spirit  sere? 

He  knew  not.     Though  his  life,  day  after  day. 
Was  failing  like  an  unrepleni.shed  stream. 
Thoagh  in  his  eyes  a  cloud  and  burden  lay, 


438  PRINCE    ATHANASE. 

Through  which  his  soul,  like  Vesper's  serene  beam 
Piercing  the  chasms  of  ever-rising  clouds, 
Shone,  softly  burning  ;  though  his  lips  did  seem 

Like  reeds  which  quiver  in  impetuous  floods; 
And  through  his  sleep,  and  o'er  each  -waking  hour, 
Thoughts  after  thoughts,  unresting  multitudes, 

Were  driven  ■wMthin  him  by  some  seci-et  power, 
Which  bade  them  blaze,  and  live,  and  roll  afar. 
Like  lights  and  sounds,  from  haunted  tower  to  tower, 

O'er  castled  mountains  borne,  when  tempest's  war 
Is  levied  by  the  night-contending  winds, 
And  the  pale  dalesmen  watch  with  eager  ear ; 

Though  such  were  in  his  spirit,  as  the  fiends 
Which  wake  and  feed  on  everliving  woe  — 
What  was  this  grief,  which  ne'er  in  other  minds 

A  mirror  found  —  he  knew  not  —  none  could  know; 
But  on  whoe'er  might  question  him  he  turned 
The  light  of  his  frank  eyes,  as  if  to  show 

He  knew  not  of  the  grief  -within  that  burned, 
But  asked  forbearance  with  a  mournful  look  ; 
Or  spoke  in  words  from  which  none  ever  learned 

The  cause  of  bis  disquietude  ;  or  shook 

With  spasms  of  silent  passion  ;  or  turned  pale  : 

So  that  his  friends  soon  rarely  undertook 

To  stir  his  secret  pain  without  avail ; 

For  all  vs'ho  knew  and  loved  him  then  perceived 

That  there  was  drawn  an  adamantine  vail 

Between  his  heart  and  mind  —  both  unrelieved 
Wrought  in  his  brain  and  bosom  separate  strife. 
Some  said  that  he  was  mad,  others  believed 

That  memories  of  an  antenatal  life 

Made  this,  where  now  he  dwelt,  a  penal  hell: 

And  others  said  that  such  mysterious  grief 

From  God's  displeasure,  like  a  darkness,  fell 
On  souls  like  his  which  owned  no  higher  law 
Than  love  —  love  calm,  steadfast,  invincible 

By  mortal  fear  or  supernatural  awe  ; 

And  others  —  "  'Tis  the  shadow  of  a  dream 

Which  the  vailed  eye  of  Memory  never  saw 


FRAGMENTS    OF    PRINCE    ATHANASE.  439 

"  But  through  the  soul's  abyss,  like  some  dark  stream 
Throus^h  shattered  mines  and  caverns  underground 
Rolls,  shaking  its  foundations  ;  and  no  beam 

"  Of  joy  may  rise,  but  it  is  quenched  and  drowned 
In  the  dim  whirlpools  of  this  dream  obscure, 
Soon  its  exhausted  waters  will  have  found 

"  A  lair  of  rest  beneath  thy  spirit  pure, 
O  Athanase  !  —  in  one  so  good  and  great, 
Evil  or  tumult  can  not  long  endure."' 

So  spake  they  :  idly  of  another's  state 
Babbling  vain  words  and  fond  philosophy; 
This  was  their  consolation  ;  such  debate 

Men  held  with  one  another ;  nor  did  be 
Like  one  who  labors  with  a  human  woe 
Decline  this  talk  ;  as  if  its  theme  might  be 

Another,  not  himself,  he  to  and  fro 
Q.ne.<tioned  and  canvassed  it  with  subtlest  w^it. 
And  none  but  those  who  loved  him  best  could  know 

That  which  he  knew  not,  how  it  galled  and  bit 
His  weary  mind,  this  converse  vain  and  cold  ; 
For  like  an  eyeless  nightmare  grief  did  sit 

Upon  his  being :  a  snake  which  fold  by  fold 
Pressed  out  the  life  of  life,  a  clinging  hend 
Which  clinched  him  if  he  stirred  with  deadlier  hold: 
And  so  his  grief  remained  —  let  it  remain  —  untold  !* 


FRAGMENTS!  OF  PRINCE  ATHANASE. 

PART    II. 

FRAGMENT  1. 
Privce  Athanase  had  one  beloved  friend, 
An  old,  old  man,  with  hair  of  silver  white, 
And  lips  where  heavenly  smiles  would  hang  and  blend 

*  The  author  was  pursuing  a  fuller  Jevelopment  of  the  ideal  character  of  Athanase, 
when  it  struck  him  that  in  an  attempt  at  extreme  refinement  and  analysis,  his  concep- 
tions might  be  betrajed  into  the  assuming  a  morbid  i  haricter.  The  reader  wUl  judge 
whether  he  is  a  lo^er  or  gainer  by  this  dilfereuce.  —  JiUhot's  note 

f  The  idea  Shelley  had  fi.imed  of  '  Prince  Athanase' was  a  good  deal  nriodeled  on 
*  Alastor.'  In  the  first  sketch  of  the  poem  he  names  it  '  Pandemos  and  Urania.'  Atlia- 
najte  -eeks  through  the  world  the  one  whom  he  may  love.  He  nieeU,  in  the  nhip  in 
which  he  is  embarked,  a  lady,  who  appears  to  him  to  embody  his  ideal  of  love  and  beauty. 
But  she  pr:)ve<  Pandemos,  or  the  earthly  and  unworthy  Venus,  who,  alter  disappomtin* 
bis  cherished  dreams  and  hopes,  de-erts  him.  Athanase,  cruhhed  by  sorrow,  Junes  and 
dies.  "  On  liis  death  bed  the  lady,  who  can  really  reply  to  his  soul,  comes  and  kisses  his 
lips."  This  slender  note  is  all  we  have  to  aid  our  imagination  in  bhuping  out  the  form  of 
the  po«m  such  as  its  author  imaged 


410  FRAGMENTS    OF    PRINCE    ATHANASE. 

With  his  wise  words  ;  and  eyes  whose  arrowy  h'ght 
Shone  like  the  reflex  of  a  thousand  minds. 
He  was  the  last  whom  superstition's  blight 

Had  spared  in  Greece  —  the  blight  that  cramps  and  blinds - 

And  in  his  olive-bower  at  CEnoe 

Had  sate  from  earliest  youth.     Like  one  who  finds 

A  fertile  island  in  the  barren  sea, 

One  mariner  who  has  survived  his  mates 

Many  a  drear  month  in  a  great  ship  —  so  he 

With  soul -sustaining  songs,  and  sweet  debates 

Of  ancient  lore,  there  fed  his  lonely  being : 

"  The  mind  becomes  that  which  it  contemplates"  — 

And  thus  Zonoras,  by  for  ever  seeing 

Their  bright  creations,  grev/  like  wisest  men  : 

And  when  he  heard  the  crash  of  nations  fleeing 

A  bloodier  power  than  ruled  thy  ruins  then. 

O  sacred  Hellas  !  many  weary  years 

He  wandered,  till  the  path  of  Laiau's  glen 

Was  grass-grown  —  and  the  unremembered  tears 
Were  dry  in  Laian  for  their  honored  chief. 
Who  fell  in  Byzant,  pierced  by  Moslem  spears  : 

And  as  the  lady  looked  with  faithful  grief 
From  her  high  lattice  o'er  the  rugged  path. 
Where  she  once  saw  that  horseman  toil,  with  brief 

And  blighting  hope,  who  with  the  news  of  death 
Struck  body  and  soul  as  with  a  mortal  blight, 
She  saw  beneath  the  chestnuts,  far  beneath. 

An  old  man  toiling  up,  a  weary  wight ; 

And  soon  within  her  hospitable  hall 

She  saw  his  white  hairs  glittering  in  the  light 

Of  the  wood  fire,  and  round  his  shoulders  fall. 
And  his  wan  visage  and  his  withered  mien. 
Yet  calm  and  gentle  and  majestical. 

And  Athanase,  her  child,  who  must  have  been 
Then  three  years  old,  sate  opposite  and  gazed 
In  patient  silence. 


FRAGMENT  II. 

Such  was  Zonoras  ;  and  as  daylight  finds 
One  amaranth  glittering  on  the  path  of  frost, 
When  autumn  nights  have  nipped  all  weaker  kinds. 


FRAGMENTS    OF    PRINCE    ATHANASE.  441 

Thus  through  his  age,  dark,  cold  and  tempest-tost, 
Shone  truth  upon  Zonoras ;  and  he  filled 
From  fountains  pure,  nigh  overgrown  and  lost, 

The  spirit  of  Prince  Athanase,  a  child. 
With  soul-sustaining  songs  of  ancient  lore 
And  philosophic  wisdom,  clear  and  mild. 

And  sweet  and  subtle  talk  now  evermore. 
The  pupil  and  the  master  shared  ;  until. 
Sharing  that  undiminishable  store, 

The  youth,  as  shadows  on  a  grassy  hill 
Outrun  the  winds  that  chase  them,  soon  outran 
His  teacher,  and  did  teach  with  native  skill 

Strange  truths  and  new  to  that  experienced  man. 
Still  they  were  friends,  as  few  have  ever  been 
Who  mark  the  extremes  of  life's  discordant  span. 

So  in  the  caverns  of  the  forest  green. 
Or  by  the  rocks  of  echoing  ocean  hoar, 
Zonoras  and  Prince  Athanase  were  seen 

By  summer  woodmen  ;  and  when  winter's  roar 
Sounded  o'er  earth  and  sea  its  blast  of  war, 
The  Balearic  fisher,  driven  froin  ^:hore, 

Hanging  upon  the  peaked  wave  afar, 

Then  saw  their  lamp  from  Laian's  turret  gleam, 

Piercing  the  stormy  darkness,  like  a  star 

Which  pours  beyond  the  sea  one  steadfast  beam, 

While  all  the  constellations  of  the  sky 

Seemed  reeling  through  the  storm  ;  they  did  but  seem — 

For,  'o  !  the  wintry  clouds  are  all  gone  by, 

And  bright  Arcturus  through  yon  pines  is  glowing, 

And  far  o'er  southern  waves,  immoveably 

Belted  Orion  hangs  —  warm  light  is  flowing 
From  the  young  moon  into  the  sunset's  chasm. — 
"  O  summer  eve  !  with  power  divine,  bestowing 

"  On  thine  own  bird  the  sweet  enthusiasm 
Which  overflows  in  notes  of  liquid  gladness. 
Filling  the  sky  like  light !    How  many  a  spasm 

"  Of  fevered  brains,  oppressed  with  trrief  and  madness. 

Were  lulled  by  thee,  delightful  nightijigale ! 

And  these  soft  waves,  murnmriug  a  gentle  sadness, 


442  FRAGMENTS    OF    PRINCE    ATHANASE. 

'•  And  the  far  sighings  of  yon  piny  dale 
Made  vocal  by  some  wind,  we  feel  not  here 
I  bear  alone  what  nothing  may  avail 

"  To  lighten  —  a  strange  load  !"  —  No  human  ear 
Heard  this  lament ;  but  o'er  the  visage  wan 
Of  Athanase,  a  ruffling  atmosphere 

Of  dark  emotion,  a  swift  shadow^  ran, 
Like  wind  upon  some  forest-bosomed  lake, 
Glassy  and  dark.     And  that  divine  old  man 

Beheld  his  mystic  friend's  whole  being  shake, 
Even  where  its  inmost  depths  were  gloomiest  — 
And  with  a  calm  and  measured  voice  he  spake. 

And,  with  a  soft  and  equal  pressure,  prest 

That  cold  lean  hand  :   "  Dost  thou  remember  yet 

When  the  curved  moon  then  lingering  in  the  west 

"  Paused,  in  yon  waves  her  mighty  horns  to  wet, 

How  in  those  beams  we  walked,  half  resting  on  the  sea  ? 

'Tis  just  one  year —  sure  thou  dost  not  forget  — 

"  Then  Plato's  words  of  light  in  thee  and  me 
Lingered  like  moonlight  in  the  moonless  east, 
For  we  had  just  then  read  —  thy  memory 

"  Is  faithful  now  —  the  story  of  the  feast ; 

And  Agathon  and  Diotima  seemed 

From  death  and  dark  forgetfulness  released." 


FRAGMENT  III. 

'TwAS  at  the  season  when  the  Earth  upsprings 
From  slumber,  as  a  sphered  angel's  child, 
Shadowing  its  eyes  with  green  and  golden  wings. 

Stands  up  before  its  mother  bright  and  mild. 
Of  whose  soft  voice  the  air  expectant  seems  — 
So  stood  before  the  sun,  which  shone  and  smiled 

To  see  it  rise  thus  joyous  from  its  dream.s, 
The  fresh  and  radiant  Earth.     The  hoary  grove 
Waxed  green,  and  Howers  burst  forth  like  starry  beams ; 

The  grass  in  the  warm  sun  did  start  and  move, 
And  sea-buds  burst  beneath  the  waves  serene. 
How  many  a  one,  though  none  be  near  to  love, 

Loves  then  the  shade  of  his  own  soul,  half  seen 
In  any  mirror  —  or  the  Spring's  young  minions, 
The  winged  leaves  amid  the  copses  green  ; 


FRAGMENTS    OF    PRINCE    ATHANASE.  443 

How  many  a  spirit  then  puts  on  the  pinions 
Of  fancy  and  outstrips  the  lagging  blast, 
And  his  own  steps  —  and  over  wide  dominions 

Sweeps  in  his  dream  drawn  chariot,  far  and  fast, 

More  fleet  than  storms  —  the  wide  world  shrinks  below, 

When  winter  and  despondency  are  past. 

'Twas  at  this  season  that  Prince  Athanase 

Passed  the  white  Alps,  those  eaule-baffling  mountains 

Slept  in  their  shrouds  of  snow  :  beside  the  ways 

The  w^aterfalls  were  voiceless,  for  their  fountains 
Were  changed  to  mines  of  sunless  crystal  now, 
Or  by  the  curdling  winds — whose  brazen  wings 

Which  clanged  along  the  mountain's  marble  brow, 
Warped  into  adamantine  fretwork,  hung 
And  filled  with  frozen  light  the  chasm  below. 


FRAGMENT  IV. 

Thou  art  the  wine  whose  drunkenness  is  all 
We  can  desire,  O  Love  !  and  happy  souls. 
Ere  from  thy  vine  the  leaves  of  autumn  fall, 

Catch  thee,  and  feed  from  their  o'erflowing  bowls 
Thousands  wlio  thirst  for  thy  ambrosial  dew  ; 
Thou  art  the  radiance  which  where  ocean  rolls 

Investest  it ;  and  when  the  heavens  are  blue 
Thou  fillest  them  ;  and  when  the  earth  is  fair, 
The  shadow  of  thy  moving  wings  imbue 

Its  deserts  and  its  mountains,  tifl  they  wear 
Beauty  like  .some  bright  robe  ;  thou  ever  soarest 
Among  the  towers  of  men,  and  as  soft  air 

In  spring,  which  moves  the  unawakened  forest, 
Clothing  with  leaves  its  branches  bare  and  bleak, 
Thou  Hoatest  among  men  ;  and  aye  implorest 

That  which  from  thee  they  should  implore  :  the  weak 

Alone  kneel  to  thee,  offering  up  the  hearts 

The  strong  have  broken  —  yet  where  shall  any  seek 


A  garment  whom  thou  clothest  not  ? 

Alarlow,  1817. 


444  Marianne's  dream. 


MARIANNE'S  DREAM. 

A  PALE  dream  came  to  a  lady  fair, 

And  said,  "  A  boon,  a  boon,  1  pray  I 
I  know  the  secrets  of  the  air, 

And  things  are  lost  in  the  glare  of  day, 
Which  I  can  make  the  sleeping  see, 
If  they  will  put  their  trust  in  me. 

And  thou  shalt  know  of  things  unknown. 

If  thou  wilt  let  me  rest  between 
The  veiny  lids  whose  fringe  is  thrown 

Over  thine  eyes  so  dark  and  sheen  :" 
And  half  in  hope,  and  half  in  fright, 
The  lady  closed  her  eyes  so  bright. 

At  first  all  deadly  shapes  were  driven 

Tumultuously  across  her  sleep, 
And  o'er  the  vast  cope  of  bending  heaven 

All  ghastly  visaged  clouds  did  sweep  ; 
And  the  lady  ever  looked  to  spy 
If  the  gold  sun  shone  forth  on  high. 

And  as  toward  the  east  she  turned, 

She  saw  aloft  in  the  morning  air, 
Which  now^  with  hues  of  sunrise  burned, 

A  great  black  anchor  rising  there  ; 
And  wherever  the  lady  turned  her  eyes 
It  hung  before  her  in  tne  skies. 

The  sky  was  blue  as  the  summer  sea. 

The  depths  were  cloudless  overhead, 
The  air  was  calm  as  it  could  be. 

There  was  no  sight  nor  sound  of  dread. 
But  that  black  anchor  floating  still 
Over  the  piny  eastern  hill. 

The  lady  grew  sick  with  a  weight  of  fear, 

To  see  that  Anchor  ever  hanging, 
And  veiled  her  eyes ;  she  then  did  hear 

The  sound  as  of  a  dim  low  clanging, 
And  looked  abroad  if  she  might  know 
Was  it  aught  else,  or  but  the  flow 
Of  the  blood  in  her  own  veins,  to  and  fro. 

There  was  a  mist  in  the  sunless  air. 

Which  shook  as  it  were  with  an  earthquake's  shock 
But  the  very  weeds  that  blossomed  there 

Were  moveless,  and  each  mighty  rock 
Stood  on  its  basis  steadfastly  ; 
The  anchor  was  seen  no  more  on  high. 


MARIANNES    DREAM.  445 

But  piled  around  with  summits  hid 

In  lines  of  cloud  at  intervals, 
Stood  many  a  mountain  pyramid 

Among  whose  everlasting  walls 
Two  mighty  cities  shone,  and  ever 
Through  the  red  mists  their  domes  did  quiver. 

On  two  dread  mountains,  from  whose  crest, 

Might  seem,  the  eagle  for  her  brood 
Would  ne'er  have  hung  her  dizzy  nest 

Those  tower-encircled  cities  stood. 
A  vision  strange  such  towers  to  see, 
Sculptured  and  wrought  so  gorgeously. 
Where  human  art  could  never  be. 

And  columns  framed  of  marble  white, 

And  giant  fanes,  dome  over  dome 
Piled  and  triumphant  gates,  all  bright 

With  workmanship  which  could  not  come 
From  touch  of  mortal  instrument. 
Shot  o'er  the  vales,  or  lustre  lent 
From  its  own  shapes  magnificent. 

But  still  the  lady  heard  that  clang 

Filling  the  wide  air  far  away  ; 
And  still  the  mist  whose  light  did  hang 

Among  the  mountain  shook  alway, 
So  that  the  lady's  heart  beat  fast, 
As  half  in  joy,  and  half  aghast. 
On  those  high  domes  her  look  she  cast. 

Sudden  from  out  that  city  sprung 

A  light  that  made  the  earth  grow  red  ; 
Two  flames  that  each  with  quivering  tongue 

Licked  its  high  domes,  and  over-head 
Among  those  mighty  towers  and  fanes 
Dropped  fire,  as  a  volcano  rains 
Its  sulphurous  ruin  on  the  plains. 

And  hark !  a  rush,  as  if  the  deep 

Had  burst  its  bonds  ;  she  looked  behind 
And  saw  over  the  western  steep 

A  raging  flood  descend,  and  wind 
Through  that  wide  vale  :  she  felt  no  fear, 
But  said  within  herself,  "  'Tis  clear 
These  towers  are  Nature's  own,  and  she 
To  save  them  has  sent  forth  the  sea." 

And  now  those  raging  billows  came 

Where  that  fair  lady  sate,  and  she 
Was  borne  toward  the  showering  flame 

By  the  wild  waves  heaped  lumultuously, 


446  Marianne's  dream. 

And,  on  a  little  plank,  the  flow 

Of  the  whirlpool  bore  her  to  and  fro. 

The  waves  were  fiercely  vomited 
From  every  tower  and  every  dome, 

And  dreary  light  did  widely  shed 

O'er  that  vast  flood's  suspended  foam, 

Beneath  the  smoke  which  hung  its  night 

On  the  stained  cope  of  heaven's  light. 

The  plank  whereon  that  lady  sate 

Was  driven  through  the  chasms,  about  and  about, 
Between  the  peaks  so  desolate 

Of  the  drowning  mountain,  in  and  out, 
As  the  thistle-beard  on  a  whirlwind  sails — 
While  the  flood  was  filhng  those  hollow  vales. 

At  last  her  plank  an  eddy  crost. 

And  bore  her  to  the  city's  wall, 
Which  now  the  flood  had  reached  almost ; 

It  might  the  stoutest  heai-t  appall 
To  hear  the  fire  roar  and  hiss 
Through  the  domes  of  those  mighty  palaces. 

The  eddy  whirled  her  round  and  round 
Before  a  gorgeous  gate,  which  stood 

Piercing  the  clouds  of  smoke  which  bound 
Its  aery  arch  with  light  like  blood ; 

She  looked  on  that  gate  of  marble  clear 

With  wonder  that  extinguished  fear. 

For  it  was  filled  with  sculptures  rarest. 
Of  forms  most  beautiful  and  strange, 

Like  nothing  human,  but  the  fairest 

Of  winged  shapes,  whose  legions  range 

Throughout  the  sleep  of  those  who  are. 

Like  this  same  lady,  good  and  fair. 

And  as  she  looked,  still  lovelier  grew 
Those  marble  forms ;  the  sculptor  sure 

Was  a  strong  spirit,  and  the  hue 
Of  his  own  mind  did  there  endure 

After  the  touch,  whose  power  had  braided 

Such  grace,  was  in  some  sad  change  faded. 

She  looked,  the  flames  were  dim,  the  flood 

Grew  tranquil  as  a  woodland  river 
Winding  through  hills  in  solitude; 

Those  marble  shapes  then  seemed  to  quiver, 
And  their  fair  limbs  to  float  in  motion, 
Like  weeds  unfolding  in  the  ocean. 


TO    CONSTANTIA.  447 


And  their  lips  moved  ;  one  seemed  to  speak, 

When  suddenly  the  mountain  crackt, 
And  through  the  chasm  the  floor  did  break 

With  an  earth-uplifting  cataract  : 
The  statues  gave  a  joyous  scream, 
And  on  its  wings  the  pale  thin  dream 
Lifted  the  lady  from  the  stream. 
The  dizzy  Hight  of  that  phantom  pale 

W  aked  the  fair  lady  from  her  sleep, 
And  she  arose,  while  from  the  vail 

Of  her  dark  eyes  the  dream  did  creep  ; 
And  she  walked  about  as  one  who  knew 
That  sleep  has  sights  as  clear  and  true 
As  any  waking  eyes  can  view, 

Alarloto,  1817. 


TO  CONSTANTIA 


Thus  to  be  lost,  and  thus  to  sink  and  die. 

Perchance  were  death  indeed  !  —  Constantia,  turn ! 

In  thy  dark  eyes  a  power  like  light  doth  lie, 

Even  though  the  sounds  which  were  thy  voice,  which  burn 

Between  thy  lips,  are  laid  to  sleep  ; 

Within  thy  breath,  and  on  thy  hair,  like  odor  it  is  yet, 

And  from  thy  touch  like  fire  doth  leap. 

Even  while  I  write,  my  burning  cheeks  are  wet, 
Alas,  that  the  torn  heart  can  bleed,  but  not  forget ! 

A  breathless  awe,  like  the  swift  change 
•  Unseen,  but  felt  in  youthful  slumbers. 
Wild,  sweet,  but  incommunicably  strange. 

Thou  breathest  now  in  fast-ascending  numbers. 
The  cope  of  heaven  seems  rent  and  cloven 

By  the  enchantment  of  thy  strain, 
And  on  my  shoulders  w^ings  are  woven. 

To  follow  its  sublime  career, 
Beyond  the  mighty  moons  that  wane 

Upon  the  verge  of  nature's  utmost  sphere. 

Till  the  world's  shadowy  walls  are  past  and  disappear. 

Her  voice  is  hovering  o'er  my  soul  — it  lingers 
O'ershadowing  it  with  soft  and  lulling  wings, 

The  blood  and  life  within  those  snowy  fingers 
Teach  witchcraft  to  the  instrumental  strings. 

My  brain  is  wild,  my  breath  comes  quick  — 
The  blood  is  listening  in  my  frame. 

And  thronging  shadows,  fast  and  thick. 
Fall  on  my  overflowing  eyes  : 

My  heart  is  quivering  like  a  flame ; 

As  morning  dew,  that  in  the  sunbeam  dies, 
1  urn  dissolved  in  these  consuming  ecstasies. 


448  DEATH. 

I  liave  no  life,  Constantia,  now,  but  thee, 

While,  like  the  world-surrounding  air,  thy  song 

Flows  on,  and  fills  all  things  with  melody.  — 
Now  is  thy  voice  a  tempest  swift  and  strong, 

On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne. 
Secure  o'er  rocks  and  w^aves  I  sweep, 

Rejoicing  like  a  cloud  of  morn. 

Now  'tis  the  breath  of  summer  night, 

Which,  w^hen  the  starry  waters  sleep, 

Round  western  isles,  with  incense-blossoms  bright, 
Lingering,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  voluptuous  flight. 


TO  CONSTANTIA. 

The  rose  that  drinks  the  fountain  dew 

In  the  pleasant  air  of  noon, 
Grow^s  pale  and  blue  with  altered  hue  — 

In  the  gaze  of  the  nightly  moon  ; 
For  the  planet  of  frost,  so  cold  and  bright. 
Makes  it  wan  with  her  borrowed  light. 

Such  is  my  heart. —  roses  are  fair. 

And  that  at  be.st  a  withered  blossom ; 
But  thy  false  care  did  idly  wear 

Its  withered  leaves  in  a  faithless  bosom  ; 
And  fed  with  love,  like  air  and  dew, 
Its  growth 


ON  F.  G. 

Her  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted. 

Yet  knew  I  not  that  heart  was  broken 
From  which  it  came,  and  I  departed 
Heeding  not  the  words  then  spoken. 
Misery — O  Misery, 
Thi.s  world  is  all  too  wide  for  thee  ! 


DEATH. 

They  die  —  the  dead  return  not  —  Misery 
Sits  near  an  open  grave  and  calls  them  over, 

A  youth  with  hoary  hair  and  haggard  eye  — 
They  are  names  of  kindred,  friend  and  lover, 

Which  he  so  feebly  calls  :  they  all  are  gone  ! 

Fond  wretch,  all  dead,  those  vacant  names  alone, 


LINES    TO    A    CRITIC.  44^ 

This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain  — 
These  tombs  alone  remain. 

Misery,  my  sweetest  friend  !  oh,  weep  uo  more  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  be  consoled  —  I  wonder  not ! 
For  I  have  seen  thee  from  thy  dwelling's  door 

Watch  the  calm  sunset  with  them,  and  this  spot 
Was  even  as  bright  and  calm,  but  transitory. 
And  now  thy  hopes  are  gone,  thy  hair  is  hoary ; 
This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain  — 
These  tombs  alone  remain. 


LINES. 

That  time  is  dead  for  ever,  child, 
Drowned,  frozen,  dead  for  ever  ! 

We  look  on  the  past, 

And  stare  aghast 
At  the  spectres  wailing,  pale  and  ghast, 
Of  hopes  which  thou  and  I  beguiled 

To  death  on  life's  dark  river. 

The  stream  we  gazed  on  then,  rolled  by  j 
Its  waves  are  unreturning  , 

But  we  yet  .stand 

In  a  lone  laud, 
Like  tombs  to  mark  the  memory 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  which  fade  and  flee 

In  the  light  of  life's  dim  morning. 

November  6,  1817. 


LINES  TO  A  CRITIC. 

Honey  from  silkworms  who  can  gather, 
Or  silk  from  the  yellow  bee  ? 

The  grass  may  grow  in  winter  weather 
As  .soon  as  hate  in  me. 

Hate  men  who  cant,  and  men  who  pray, 
And  men  who  rail  like  thee : 

An  equal  passion  to  repay 
They  are  not  coy  like  me. 

Or  seek  some  slave  of  power  and  gold, 
To  be  thy  dear  heart's  mate  ; 

Thy  love  will  move  that  bigot  cold, 
Sooner  than  me  thy  hate. 

29 


450  SONNET. OZYMANDIAS. 

A  passion  like  the  one  I  prove 

Can  not  divided  be  ; 
I  hate  thy  want  of  truth  and  love  : 

How  should  I  then  hate  thee  ? 

December,  1817. 


SONNET.  — OZYMANDIAS. 

I  MET  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said,  "  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed  ; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 
'  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  mighty,  and  de^spair !' 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away." 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1818 


ADVERTISEMENT 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN,'  AND  '  LINES,  WRITTEN 
AMONG  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS.' 


The  story  of  •  Rosalind  and  ITklen'  is  undoubtedly  not  an  attempt 
in  the  highest  style  of  poetry.  It  is  in  no  degree  calculated  to  excite 
profound  meditation  ;  and  if.  by  interesting  the  affections  and  amusing 
the  imagination,  it  awaken  a  certain  ideal  melancholy  favorable  to  the 
reception  of  more  important  impressions,  it  will  produce  in  the  reader 
all  that  the  writer  experienced  in  the  composition.  I  resigned  myself, 
as  I  wrote,  to  the  impulse  of  the  feelings  which  moulded  the  concep- 
tion of  the  story  ;  and  this  impulse  determined  the  pauses  of  a  measure, 
which  only  pretends  to  be  regular  inasmuch  as  it  corresponds  with  and 
expresses  the  irrenniarity  of  the  imaginations  which  inspired  it. 

I  do  not  know  which  of  the  few  scattered  poems  I  left  in  England 
will  be  selected  by  my  bookseller  to  add  to  this  collection  One,  v\  liich 
I  sent,  from  Italy,  was  written  after  a  day's  excursion  among  those 
lovely  mountains  which  surround  what  was  once  the  retreat  and  where 
is  now  the  sepulchre  of  I'etrarch.  If  any  one  is  inclined  to  condemn  the 
insertion  of  the  introductory  lines,  which  image  forth  the  sudden  re- 
lief of  a  state  of  deep  despondency  by  the  radiant  visions  disclosed  by 
the  sudden  burst  of  an  Italian  sunrise  in  autumn,  on  the  highest  peak 
of  those  delightful  mountains, !  can  only  oflTer  as  my  excuse,  that  they 
were  not  erased  at  the  request  «if  a  dear  friend,  with  whom  added  years 
of  intercourse  only  add  to  my  apprehension  of  its  value,  and  wiio  would 
have  had  more  right  than  any  one  to  complain  that  she  has  not  been 
able  to  extinguish  in  me  the  very  power  of  delineating  sadness. 

Naples,  December  20,  1818. 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 


Scene. —  The  Shore  of  tlie.  Lake  of  Como. 

ROSALIND,  HELEN,  and  her  Child. 


Come  hither,  ruy  sweet  Rosalind. 

'Tis  long  since  thou  and  I  have  met ; 

And  yet  methinks  it  were  unkind 

Those  moments  to  forget. 

Come,  sit  by  me.     I  see  thee  stand 

By  this  lone  lake,  in  this  far  land, 

Thy  loose  hair  in  the  light  wind  flying, 

Thy  sweet  voice  to  each  tone  of  even 

United,  and  thine  eyes  replying 

To  the  hues  of  yon  fair  heaven. 

Come,  gentle  friend  !  wilt  sit  by  me  ? 

And  be  as  thou  we  it  wont  to  be 

Ere  we  were  disunited  ? 

None  doth  behold  us  now  :  the  power 

That  led  us  forth  at  this  lone  hour 

Will  be  but  ill  requited 

If  thou  depart  in  scorn  :  oh  !  come, 

And  talk  of  our  abandoned  home. 

Remember,  this  is  Italy, 

And  we  are  exiles.     Talk  "with  me 

Of  that  our  land,  whose  wilds  and  floods, 

Barren  and  dark  although  they  be, 

Were  dearer  than  the.«e  chestnut  woods  ; 

Those  heathy  paths,  that  inland  stream, 

And  the  blue  mountain.^,  shapes  which  seem 

Like  wrecks  of  childhoods  sunny  dream  : 

Which  that  we  have  abandoned  now. 

Weighs  on  the  heart  like  that  remorse 

Which  altered  friendship  leaves.     I  seek 

No  more  our  youthful  intercourse. 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  453 

That  can  not  be  !     Bxjsalind,  speak, 

Speak  to  me :  leave  me  not.  —  When  morn  did  come. 

When  evening  fell  upon  our  common  home, 

When  for  one  hour  w^e  parted  —  do  not  frown  ; 

I  would  not  chide  thee,  though  thy  faith  is  broken  ; 

But  turn  to  me.     Oh  !  by  this  cherished  token 

Of  woven  hair,  which  thou  wilt  not  disown, 

Turn,  as  'twere  but  the  memory  of  me. 

And  not  my  scorned  self  who  prayed  to  thee. 

ROSALIND. 

Is  it  a  dream,  or  do  I  see 

And  hear  frail  Helen  ?     I  would  flee 

Thy  tainting  touch  ;  but  former  years 

Arise,  and  bring  forbidden  tears ; 

And  my  o'erburdened  memory 

Seeks  yet  its  lost  repose  in  thee. 

I  share  thy  crime.     I  can  not  choose 

But  weep  for  thee  :  mine  own  strange  grief 

But  seldom  stoops  to  such  relief; 

Nor  ever  did  I  love  thee  less. 

Though  mourning  o'er  thy  wickedness 

Even  w^ith  a  sister's  woe.     I  knew 

What  to  the  evil  world  is  due, 

And  therefore  sternly  did  refuse 

To  link  me  with  the  infamy 

Of  one  so  lost  as  Helen.     Now 

Bewildered  by  my  dire  despair. 

Wondering  I  blush,  and  wreep  that  thou 

Shouldst  love  me  still  —  thou  only!  —  There, 

Let  us  sit  on  that  gray  stone. 

Till  our  mournful  talk  be  done. 


Alas  !  not  there  :  I  can  not  bear 

The  murmur  of  this  lake  to  hear. 

A  sound  from  thee,  Rosalind  dear, 

Which  never  yet  I  heard  elsewhere 

But  in  our  native  land,  recurs. 

Even  here  where  now  we  meet.     It  stirs 

Too  much  of  suffocating  sorrow  ! 

In  the  dell  of  yon  dark  chestnut  wood 

Is  a  stone  seat,  a  solitude 

Less  like  our  own.     The  ghost  of  peace 

Will  not  desert  this  spot.     To-moiTOW, 

If  thy  kind  feelings  should  not  cease, 

We  may  sit  here. 

ROSALIND. 

Thou  lead,  my  sweet, 
And  I  wiU  follow. 


454  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

HENRY. 

'Tis  Fenici's  seat 
"Where  you  are  going-  ?     This  is  not  the  way, 
Mamma  ;  it  leads  behind  those  trees  that  grow- 
Close  to  the  little  river. 


Yes  ;  I  know  : 
I  was  bewildered.  Kiss  me,  and  be  gay. 
Dear  boy  :  why  do  you  sob  ? 

HENRY. 

I  do  not  know  : 
But  it  might  break  any  one's  heart  to  see 
You  and  the  lady  cry  so  bitterly. 

HELEN. 

It  is  a  gentle  child,  my  friend.     Go  home, 
Henry,  and  play  with  Lilla  till  I  come. 
"We  only  cried  with  joy  to  see  each  other : 
We  are  quite  merry  now.     Good  night ! 

The  boy 
Lifted  a  sudden  look  upon  his  mother. 
And  in  the  gleam  of  forced  and  hollow  joy 
"Which  lightened  o'er  her  face,  laughed  with  the  glee 
Of  light  and  unsuspecting  infancy, 
And  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Bring  home  with  you 
That  sweet  strange  lady-friend."     Then  off  he  flew, 
But  stopped,  and  beckoned  with  a  meaning  smile, 
"Where  the  road  turned.     Pale  Rosalind  the  while, 
Hiding  her  face,  stood  weeping  silently. 

In  silence  then  they  took  the  way 

Beneath  the  forest's  solitude. 

It  was  a  vast  and  antique  wood, 

Through  which  they  took  their  way; 

And  the  gray  shades  of  evening 

O'er  that  green  wilderness  did  fling 

Still  deeper  solitude. 

Pursuing  still  the  path  that  wound 

The  vast  and  knotted  trees  around 

Through  which  slow  shades  were  wandering, 

To  a  deep  lawny  dell  they  came, 

To  a  stone  seat  beside  a  spring. 

O'er  which  the  columned  wood  did  frame 

A  roofless  temple,  like  the  fane 

"Where,  ere  new  creeds  could  faith  obtain, 

Man's  early  race  once  knelt  beneath 

The  overhanging  Deity. 

O'er  this  fair  fountain  hung  the  sky. 

Now  spangled  with  rare  stars.     The  snake, 

The  pale  snake,  that  with  eager  breath 

Creeps  here  his  noontide  thirst  to  slake. 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN  456 

Is  beaming  with  many  a  mingled  hue, 

Shed  from  yon  dome's  eternal  blue, 

When  he  iioats  on  that  dark  and  lucid  flood 

In  the  light  of  lii.s  own  loveliness  ; 

And  the  birds  that  in  tlie  fountain  dip 

Their  plumes,  with  fearless  fellowship 

Above  and  round  him  wheel  and  hover. 

The  fitful  wind  is  heard  to  stir 

One  solitary  leaf  on  high  ; 

The  chirping  of  the  grasshopper 

Fills  every  pause.     There  is  emotion 

In  all  that  dwells  at  noontide  here  ; 

Then,  through  the  intricate  wild-wood, 

A  maze  of  life  and  light  and  motion 

Is  woven.     But  there  is  stillness  now  ; 

Gloom,  and  the  trance  of  Nature  now  : 

The  snake  is  in  his  cave  asleep  ; 

The  birds  are  on  the  branches  dreaming: 

Only  the  shadows  creep  ; 

Only  the  glow-w^orm  is  gleaming ; 

Only  the  owls  and  the  nightingales 

Wake  in  this  dell  when  daylight  fails, 

And  gray  shades  gather  in  the  woods ; 

And  the  owls  have  all  fled  far  away 

In  a  merrier  glen  to  hoot  and  play, 

For  the  moon  is  vailed  and  sleeping  now. 

The  accustomed  nightingale  still  broods 

On  her  accustomed  bough, 

But  she  is  mute  ;  for  her  false  mate 

Has  fled  and  left  her  desolate. 


This  silent  spot  tradition  old 

Had  peopled  with  the  spectral  dead. 

For  the  roots  of  the  speaker's  hair  felt  cold 

And  stilF,  as  with  tremulous  lips  he  told 

That  a  hellish  shape  at  midnight  led 

The  ghost  of  a  youth  with  hoary  hair. 

And  sate  on  the  seat  beside  him  there. 

Till  a  naked  child  came  wandering  by, 

When  the  fiend  would  change  to  a  lady  fair ! 

A  fearful  tale  !     The  truth  was  worse : 

For  here  a  sister  and  a  brother 

Had  solemnized  a  monstrous  curse, 

Meeting  in  this  fair  solitude  : 

For  beneath  yon  very  sky 

Had  they  resigned  to  one  another 

Body  and  soul.     The  multitude. 

Tracking  them  to  the  secret  wood, 

Tore  limb  from  limb  their  innocent  child. 

And  stabbed  and  trampled  on  its  mother ; 

But  the  youth,  for  God's  most  holy  grace, 

A  priest  saved  to  burn  in  the  market-place. 


456  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

Duly  at  evening  Helen  came 

To  this  lone  silent  spot. 

From  the  wrecks  of  a  tale  of  wilder  sorrow 

So  much  of  sympathy  to  borrow^ 

As  soothed  her  ow^n  dark  lot. 

Duly  each  evening  from  her  home, 

With  her  fair  child  would  Helen  come 

To  sit  upon  that  antique  seat, 

While  the  hues  of  day  were  pale ; 

And  the  bright  boy  beside  her  feet 

Now  lay,  lifting  at  intervals 

His  broad  blue  eyes  on  her  ; 

Now,  where  some  sudden  impulse  calls. 

Following.     He  was  a  gentle  boy. 

And  in  all  gentle  sports  took  joy ; 

Oft  in  a  dry  leaf  for  a  boat, 

With  a  small  feather  for  a  sail, 

His  fancy  on  that  spring  would  float, 

If  some  invisible  breeze  might  stir 

Its  marble  calm  :  and  Helen  smiled 

Through  tears  of  awe  on  the  gay  child, 

To  think  that  a  boy  as  fair  as  he, 

In  years  which  never  more  may  be, 

By  that  same  fount,  in  that  same  wood. 

The  like  sweet  fancies  had  pursued  ; 

And  that  a  mother,  lost  like  her. 

Had  mournfully  sate  watching  him. 

Then  all  the  scene  was  wont  to  swim 

Through  the  mist  of  a  burning  tear. 

For  many  months  had  Helen  known 

This  scene  ;  and  now  she  thither  turned 

Her  footsteps,  not  alone. 

The  friend  whose  falsehood  she  had  mourned, 

Sate  with  her  on  that  seat  of  stone. 

Silent  they  sate  :  for  evening, 

And  the  power  its  glimpses  bring 

Had,  with  one  awful  shadow,  quelled 

The  passion  of  their  grief.     They  sate 

With  linked  hands,  for  unrepelled 

Had  Helen  taken  Rosalind's. 

Like  the  autumn  wind,  when  it  unbinds 

The  tangled  locks  of  the  nightshade's  hair, 

Which  is  twined  in  the  sultry  summer  air 

Round  the  vi'alls  of  an  outworn  sepulchre, 

Did  the  voice  of  Helen,  sad  and  sweet. 

And  the  sound  of  her  heart  that  ever  beat, 

As  with  sighs  and  words  she  breathed  on  her, 

Unbind  the  knots  of  her  friend's  despair. 

Till  her  thoughts  were  free  to  float  and  flow  : 

And  from  her  laboring  bosom  now, 

Like  the  bursting  of  a  prisoned  flame, 

The  voice  of  a  long-pent  sorrow  came. 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  457 


ROSALIND. 

I  sav/  the  dark  earth  fall  upon 

The  coffin  ;  and  I  sa'w  the  stone 

Laid  over  him  whom  this  cold  breast 

Had  pillowed  to  his  nightly  rest ! 

Thou  knowest  not,  thou  canst  not  know 

My  agony.     Oh  !  I  could  not  weep  : 

The  sources  whence  such  blessings  flow 

Were  not  to  be  approached  by  me  ! 

But  I  could  smile,  and  I  could  sleep, 

Though  with  a  self-accusing  heart. 

In  morning's  light,  in  evening's  gloom, 

I  watched  —  and  would  not  thence  depart  — 

My  husband's  unlamented  tomb. 

My  children  knew  their  sire  was  gone, 

But  when  I  told  them,  "  He  is  dead," 

They  laughed  aloud  in  frantic  glee. 

They  clapped  their  hands  and  leaped  about, 

Answering  each  other's  ecstasy 

With  many  a  prank  and  merry  shout. 

But  I  sat  silent  and  alone. 

Wrapped  in  the  mock  of  mourning  weed. 

They  laughed,  for  he  was  dead  ;  but 
Sate  w^ith  a  hard  and  tearless  eye, 
And  with  a  heart  which  would  deny 
The  secret  joy  it  could  not  quell. 
Low  muttering  o'er  his  loathed  name  ; 
Till  from  that  self-contention  came 
Remorse  where  sin  was  none  —  a  hell 
Which  in  pure  spirits  should  not  dwell. 


I'll  tell  thee  truth.     He  was  a  man 

Hard,  selfish,  loving  only  gold. 

Yet  full  of  guile :  his  pale  eyes  ran 

With  tears,  which  each  some  falsehood  told, 

And  oft  his  smooth  and  bridled  tongue 

Would  give  the  lie  to  his  flushing  cheek : 

He  was  a  coward  to  the  strong  ; 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak. 

On  w^hom  his  vengeance  he  would  wreak ; 

For  scorn,  whose  arrows  search  the  heart, 

From  many  a  stranger's  eye  would  dart. 

And  on  his  memory  cling,  and  follow 

His  soul  to  its  home  so  cold  and  hollow. 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak. 

And  we  were  such,  alas  the  day ! 

Oft,  when  my  little  ones  at  play. 

Were  in  youth's  natural  lightness  gay, 

Or  if  they  listened  to  some  tale 

Of  travelers,  or  of  fairy  land  — 

When  the  light  from  the  wood-fire's  dying  brand 


458  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

Flashed  on  their  faces,  if  they  heard 

Or  thought  they  heard  upon  the  stair 

His  footstep,  the  suspended  word 

Died  on  my  lips :  we  all  grew  pale  ; 

The  babe  at  my  bosom  was  hushed  with  fear 

If  it  thought  it  lieard  its  father  near  ; 

And  my  two  wild  boys  would  near  my  knee 

Cling,  cowed,  and  cowering  fearfully. 

I'll  tell  the  truth  :  I  loved  another. 

His  name  in  my  ear  was  ever  ringing, 

His  form  to  my  brain  was  ever  clinging  ; 

Yet  if  some  stranger  breathed  that  name. 

My  lips  turned  -white,  and  my  heart  beat  fast : 

My  nights  were  once  haunted  by  dreams  of  flame, 

My  days  were  dim  in  the  shadow  cast, 

By  the  memory  of  the  same  ! 

Day  and  niglit,  day  and  night. 

He  was  my  breath  and  lile  and  light, 

For  three  short  years,  which  soon  were  past. 

On  the  fourth,  my  gentle  motlier 

Led  me  to  the  shrine,  to  be 

His  sworn  bride  eternally. 

And  now  we  stood  on  the  altar  stair, 

When  my  father  came  from  a  distant  laud. 

And  with  a  loud  and  fearful  cry, 

Rushed  between  us  suddenly. 

I  saw  the  stream  of  his  thin  gray  hair, 

I  saw  his  lean  and  lifted  hand. 

And  heard  his  words,  and  live  !     O  God ! 

Wherefore  do  I  live  ?     "  Hold,  hold !" 

He  cried,  "  1  tell  thee  'tis  her  brother ! 

Thy  mother,  boy,  beneath  the  sod 

Of  yon  church-yard  rests  in  her  shroud  so  cold. 

I  am  now  w^eak  and  pale  and  old  : 

We  were  once  dear  to  one  another, 

I  and  that  corpse  !     Thou  art  our  child  !" 

Then  with  a  laugh  both  long  and  wild 

The  youth  uoon  the  pavement  fell  : 

They  found  him  dead  !     All  looked  on  me. 

The  spasms  of  my  despair  to  see  ; 

But  I  was  calm.     I  went  away ; 

I  was  clammy-cold  like  clay  ! 

I  did  not  weep  —  I  did  not  speak ; 

But  day  by  day,  week  alter  week, 

1  walked  about  like  a  corpse  alive  ! 

Alas !  sweet  friend,  you  must  believe 

This  heart  is  stone  —  it  did  not  break. 

My  father  lived  a  little  while. 
But  all  might  see  that  he  was  dying, 
He  smiled  with  such  a  woeful  smile ! 
When  he  was  in  the  church-yard  lying 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  459 

Among  the  worms,  we  grew  quite  poor, 

So  that  no  one  would  give  us  bread ; 

My  mother  looked  at  me,  and  said 

Faint  words  of  cheer,  which  only  meant 

That  she  could  die  and  be  content ; 

So  I  went  forth  from  the  same  church  door 

To  another  husband's  bed. 

And  this  was  he  who  died  at  last. 

When  w^eeks  and  months  and  years  had  past. 

Through  which  I  firmly  did  fulfill 

My  duties,  a  devoted  wife. 

With  the  stern  step  of  vanquished  will, 

Walking  beneath  the  night  of  life. 

Whose  hours  extinguished,  like  slow  rain 

Falling  for  ever,  pain  by  pain, 

The  very  hope  of  death's  dear  rest ; 

Which,  since  the  heart  within  my  breast 

Of  natural  life  was  dispossest, 

Its  strange  sustainer  there  had  been. 

When  flowers  were  dead,  and  grass  was  green 

Upon  my  mother's  grave,  that  mother 

Whom  to  outlive,  and  cheer,  and  make 

My  wan  eyes  glitter  for  her  sake. 

Was  my  vowed  task,  the  single  care 

Which  once  gave  life  to  my  despair. 

When  she  was  a  thing  that  did  not  stir. 

And  the  crawling  worms  were  cradling  her 

To  a  sleep  more  deep  and  so  more  sweet 

Than  a  baby's  rocked  on  its  nurse's  knee, 

I  lived  ;  a  living  pulse  then  beat 

Beneath  my  heart  that  awakened  me. 

What  was  this  pulse  so  warm  and  free  ? 

Alas  !  I  knew  it  could  not  be 

My  own  dull  blood :  'twas  like  a  thought 

Of  liquid  love,  that  spread  and  wrought 

Under  my  bosom  and  in  my  brain. 

And  crept  with  the  blood  tlirough  eveiy  vein ; 

And  hour  by  hour,  day  after  day. 

The  wonder  could  not  charm  away. 

But  laid  in  sleep  my  wakeful  pain, 

Until  1  knew  it  was  a  child, 

And  then  I  w^ept.     For  long,  long  years 

These  frozen  eyes  had  shed  no  tears : 

But  now  —  'twas  the  season  fair  and  mild 

When  April  has  wept  itself  to  May  : 

1  sate  through  the  sweet  sunny  day 

By  my  w^indow  bowered  round  with  leaves. 

And  down  my  cheeks  the  quick  tears  ran 

Like  twinkling  rain-drops  from  the  eaves, 

When  warm  spring  showers  are  passinir  o'er. 

O  Helen,  none  can  ever  tell 

i  he  joy  it  was  to  weep  once  more  ! 


460  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

I  wept  to  think  how  hard  it  were 

To  kill  my  babe  and  take  from  it 

The  sense  of  light,  and  the  warm  air. 

And  my  own  fond  and  tender  care, 

And  love  and  smiles ;  ere  I  knew  yet 

That  these  for  it  might,  as  for  me, 

Be  the  masks  of  a  grinning  mockery. 

And  haply,  I  would  dream,  'twere  sweet 

To  feed  it  from  my  faded  breast, 

Or  mark  my  own  heart's  restless  beat 

Rock  it  to  its  untroubled  rest, 

And  w^atch  the  grow^ing  soul  beneath 

Dawn  in  faint  smiles  ;  and  hear  its  breath, 

Half  interrupted  by  calm  sighs, 

And  search  the  depth  of  its  fair  eyes 

For  long-departed  memories  ! 

And  so  I  lived  till  that  sweet  load 

Was  lightened.     Darkly  forward  flowed 

The  stream  of  years,  and  on  it  bore 

Two  shapes  of  gladness  to  my  sight ; 

Tw^o  other  babes,  deliglitful  more 

In  my  lost  soul's  abandoned  night, 

Than  their  own  country  ships  may  be 

Saihng  toward  wrecked  mariners, 

Who  cling  to  the  rock  of  a  wintry  sea. 

For  each,  as  it  came,  brought  soothing  tears. 

And  a  loosening  warmth,  as  each  one  lay 

Sucking  the  sullen  milk  aw^ay 

About  my  frozen  heart,  did  play. 

And  weaned  it  oh  how  painfully! 

As  they  themselves  were  weaned  each  one 

From  that  sweet  food,  even  from  the  thirst 

Of  death  and  nothingness  and  rest, 

Strange  inmate  of  a  Hving  breast ! 

Which  all  that  I  had  undergone 

Of  grief  and  shame,  since  she,  who  first 

The  gates  of  that  dark  refuge  closed. 

Came  to  my  sight,  and  almost  burst 

The  seal  of  that  Lethean  spring  ; 

But  these  fair  shadow^s  interposed: 

For  all  delights  are  shadows  now  ! 

And  from  my  brain  to  my  dull  brow 

The  heavy  tears  gather  and  flow  : 

I  can  not  speak  —  oh  let  me  weep  ! 

The  tears  which  fell  from  her  wan  eyes 
Glimmered  among  the  moonlight  dew  ; 
Her  deep  hard  sobs  and  heavy  sighs 
Their  echoes  in  the  darkness  threw. 
When  she  grew  calm,  she  thus  did  keep 
The  tenor  of  her  tale :  — 

He  died, 
I  know  not  how.     He  was  not  old. 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  4bl 

If  age  be  numbered  by  its  years  ; 

But  he  was  bowed  and  bent  w^itb  fears, 

Pale  with  the  quenchless  thirst  of  gold, 

Which,  like  fierce  fever,  left  him  weak  ; 

And  his  strait  lip  and  bloated  cheek 

Were  warped  in  spasms  by  hollow  sneers ; 

And  selfish  cares  with  barren  plow. 

Not  age,  had  lined  his  narrow  brow. 

And  foul  and  cruel  thoughts,  which  feed 

Upon  the  w^ithering  life  within. 

Like  vjpers  on  some  poisonous  weed. 

Whether  his  ill  were  death  or  sin 

None  knew^,  until  he  died  indeed, 

And  then  men  owned  they  were  the  same. 

Seven  days  within  my  chamber  lay 
That  corse,  and  my  babes  made  holyday : 
At  last,  I  told  them  what  is  death  ; 
The  eldest,  with  a  kind  of  shame. 
Came  to  my  knees  w^ith  silent  breath. 
And  sate  awe  stricken  at  my  feet ; 
And  soon  the  others  left  their  play, 
And  sate  there  too.     It  is  unmeet 
To  shed  on  the  brief  flower  of  youth 
The  withering  knowledge  of  the  grave  ; 
From  me  remorse  then  wrung  that  truth. 
I  could  not  bear  the  joy  which  gave 
Too  just  a  response  to  mine  own. 
In  vain.     I  dared  not  feign  a  groan ; 
And  in  their  artless  looks  I  saw. 
Between  the  mists  of  fear  and  awe. 
That  my  own  thought  was  theirs  ;  and  they 
Expressed  it  not  in  words,  but  said, 
Each  in  its  heart,  how  every  day 
Will  pass  in  happy  work  and  play, 
Now  he  is  dead  and  gone  away  ! 

After  the  funeral  all  our  kin 

Assembled,  and  the  will  was  read. 

My  friend,  1  tell  thee  even  the  dead 

Have  strength,  their  putrid  shrouds  within, 

To  blast  and  torture.     Those  who  live 

Still  fear  the  living,  but  a  corse 

Is  merciless,  and  Power  doth  give 

To  such  pale  tyrants  half  the  spoil 

He  ren<l8  from  those  who  groan  and  toil. 

Because  they  blush  not  with  remorse 

Among  their  crawling  worms.     Behold, 

1  have  no  child  !  my  tale  grows  old 

With  grief,  and  staggers  :  let  it  reach 

The  limits  of  my  feeble  speech, 

And  languidly  at  length  recline 

On  the  brink  of  its  own  grave  and  mine. 


462  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

Thou  knowest  what  a  thing  is  poverty 

Among  the  fallen  on  evil  days  : 

'Tis  Crime  and  Fear  and  Infamy 

And  houseless  Want  in  frozen  ways 

Wandering  ungarmented,  and  Pain, 

And.  w^orse  than  all,  that  inward  stain 

Foul  Self-contempt,  which  drowns  in  sneei's 

Youth's  starlight  smile,  and  makes  its  tears 

First  like  hot  gall,  then  dry  for  ever  ! 

And  well  thou  knowest  a  mother  never 

Could  doom  her  children  to  this  ill. 

And  w^ell  he  knew  the  same.     The  will 

Imported,  that  if  e'er  again 

I  sought  my  children  to  behold. 

Or  in  my  birthplace  did  remain 

Beyond  three  days,  whose  houi-s  were  told, 

They  should  inherit  naught :  and  he, 

To  whom  next  came  their  patrimony, 

A  sallow  lawyer,  cruel  and  cold, 

Aye  watched  me,  as  the  will  was  read, 

With  eyes  askance,  w^hich  sought  to  see 

The  secrets  of  my  agony  ; 

And  with  close  lips  and  anxious  brow 

Stood  canvas.sing  still  to  and  fro 

The  chance  of  my  resolve,  and  all 

The  dead  man's  caution  just  did  call ; 

For  in  that  killing  lie  'twas  said  — 

"  She  is  adulterous,  and  doth  hold 

In  secret  that  the  Christian  creed 

Is  false,  and  therefore  is  much  need 

That  I  should  have  a  care  to  save 

My  children  from  eternal  lire." 

Friend,  he  was  sheltered  by  the  grave, 

And  therefore  dared  to  be  a  liar  ! 

In  truth,  the  Indian  on  the  pyre 

Of  her  dead  husband,  half  consumed, 

As  well  might  there  be  false,  as  I 

To  those  abhorred  embraces  doomed. 

Far  worse  than  fire's  brief  agony. 

As  to  the  Christian  creed,  if  true 

Or  false,  I  never  questioned  it : 

I  took  it  as  the  vulgar  do  : 

Nor  my  vexed  soul  had  leisure  yet 

To  doubt  the  things  men  say,  or  deem 

That  they  are  other  than  they  seem. 

All  present  who  those  crimes  did  hear, 
In  feigned  or  actual  scorn  and  fear, 
Men,  women,  children,  slunk  away. 
Whispering  with  self-conteuted  pride, 
W^hich  half  suspects  its  own  base  lie. 
I  spoke  to  none,  nor  did  abide, 
But  silently  1  went  my  way. 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  463 

Nor  noticed  I  where  joyously 

Sate  my  two  younger  babes  at  play, 

In  the  courtyard  through  which  I  past ; 

But  went  with  footsteps  firm  and  fast 

Till  I  came  to  the  brink  of  the  ocean  green, 

And  there,  a  woman  with  gray  hairs. 

Who  had  my  mother's  servant  been, 

Kneeling,  with  many  tears  and  prayers, 

Made  me  accept  a  purse  of  gold, 

Half  of  the  earnings  she  had  kept 

To  refuge  her  when  weak  ajid  old. 

With  Woe,  which  never  sleeps  or  slept, 

I  wander  now.     'Tis  a  vain  thought  — 

But  on  yon  Alp,  whose  snowy  head 

'Mid  the  azure  air  is  islanded 

(We  see  it  o'er  the  flood  of  cloud, 

Which  sunrise  from  its  eastern  caves 

Drives,  wrinkling  into  golden  waves. 

Hung  with  its  precipices  proud. 

From  that  gray  stone  where  first  w^e  met), 

There,  now  who  knows  the  dead  feel  naught  ? 

Should  be  my  grave  ;  for  he  who  yet 

Is  my  soul's  soul,  once  said,  "  'Twere  sweet 

'Mid  stars  and  lightnings  to  abide, 

And  winds  and  lulling  .snows,  that  beat 

With  their  soft  flakes  the  mountain  wide, 

When  weary  meteor  lamps  repose, 

And  languid  storms  their  pinions  close  ; 

And  all  things  strong  and  bright  and  pure, 

And  ever  during,  aye  endure  : 

Who  knows,  if  one  w^ere  buried  there, 

But  these  things  might  our  spirits  make. 

Amid  the  all  surrounding  air. 

Their  own  eternity  partake  ?" 

Then  'twas  a  wild  and  playful  saying 

At  which  I  laughed  or  seemed  to  laugh : 

They  w^ere  his  words  :  now  heed  my  praying, 

And  let  them  be  my  epitaph. 

Thy  memory  for  a  term  may  be 

My  monument.     Wilt  remember  me  ? 

I  know  thou  wilt,  and  canst  forgive 

While  in  this  erring  world  to  live 

My  soul  disdained  not,  that  1  thought 

Its  lying  forms  were  worthy  aught, 

And  much  less  thee. 


O  speak  not  so, 
But  come  to  me  and  pour  thy  woe 
Into  this  heart,  full  though  it  be. 
Aye  overHowing  with  its  own  : 
1  thought  that  grief  had  severed  me 
From  all  beside  who  weep  aiid  groan  ; 


464  ROSALIND   AND    HELEN. 

Its  likeness  upon  earth  to  be, 

Its  express  image  ;  but  thou  art 

More  wretched.     Sweet !  we  will  not  part 

Henceforth,  if  death  be  not  division  ; 

If  so,  the  dead  feel  no  contrition. 

But  wilt  thou  hear,  since  last  we  parted 

All  that  has  left  me  broken-hearted  ? 


Yes,  speak.     The  faintest  stars  are  scarcely  shorn 
Of  their  thin  beams,  by  that  delusive  morn 
Which  sinks  again  in  darkness,  like  the  light 
Of  early  love,  soon  lost  in  total  night. 


Alas  !  Italian  winds  are  mild. 

But  my  bosom  is  cold  — wintry  cold  — 

When  the  warm  air  weaves,  among  the  fresh  leaves, 

Soft  music,  my  poor  brain  is  wild. 

And  I  am  weak  like  a  nursling  child. 

Though  my  soul  with  grief  is  gray  and  old. 


Weep  not  at  thine  own  words,  though  they  must  make 
Me  weep.     What  is  thy  tale  ? 


I  fear  'twill  shake 
Thy  gentle  heart  with  tears.     Thou  well 
Rememberest  when  we  met  no  more, 
And,  though  I  dwelt  with  Lionel, 
That  friendless  caution  pierced  me  sore 
With  grief — a  wound  my  spirit  bore 
Indignantly  ;  but  when  he  died, 
With  him  lay  dead  both  hope  and  pride. 

Alas  !  all  hope  is  buried  now. 
But  then  men  dreamed  the  aged  earth 
Was  laboring  in  that  mighty  birth, 
Which  many  a  poet  and  a  sage 
Has  aye  foreseen  —  the  happy  age 
When  truth  and  love  shall  dwell  below 
Among  the  w^orks  and  ways  of  men  ; 
Which  on  this  world  not  power  but  will 
Even  now  is  wanting  to  fulfill. 
Among  mankind  what  thence  befell 
Of  strife,  how  vain,  is  known  too  w^ell ; 
When  Liberty's  dear  paean  fell 
'Mid  murderous  howls.     To  Lionel, 
Though  of  great  wealth  and  lineage  high, 
Yet  through  those  dungeon -walls  there  came 
Thy  thrilling  light,  O  Liberty  ! 
And  as  the  meteor's  midnight  flame 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  465 

Startles  the  dreamer,  sunlike  truth 

Flashed  on  his  vi-ionary  youth. 

And  filled  him.  not  with  love,  but  faith 

And  hope  and  courage  mute  in  death ; 

For  love  and  life  in  him  were  twins, 

Born  at  one  birth  :  in  every  other 

First  life  then  love  its  course  begins. 

Though  they  be  children  of  one  mother ; 

And  so  through  this  dark  world  they  fleet 

Divided,  till  in  death  they  meet : 

But  he  loved  all  tliings  ever.     Then 

He  passed  amid  the  strife  of  men. 

And  stood  at  the  throne  of  armed  power 

Pleading  for  a  vvo;!d  of  woe  : 

Secure  as  one  on  a  rock-built  tower 

O'er  the  wrecks  which  the  surge  trails  to  and  fro, 

'Mid  the  passions  wild  of  human  kind 

He  stood,  like  a  spirit  calming  them  ; 

For  it  was  said  his  words  could  bind 

Like  music  the  lulled  crowd,  and  stem 

That  torrent  of  unquiet  dream 

Which  mortals  truth  and  reason  deem, 

But  is  revenge  and  i"ar  and  pride. 

Joyous  he  was  ;  and  hope  and  peace 

On  all  who  heard  him  did  abide. 

Raining  like  dew  from  his  sweet  talk, 

As  where  the  evening  star  may  walk 

Along  the  brink  of  the  gloomy  seas, 

Liquid  mists  of  splendor  quiver. 

His  very  gestures  touched  to  tears 

The  unpersuaded  tyrant,  never 

So  moved  before  :  his  presence  stung 

The  torturers  with  their  victims'  pain, 

And  none  knew  how  ;  and  through  their  ears, 

The  subtle  witchcraft  of  his  tongue 

Unlocked  the  hearts  of  those  who  keep 

Gold,  the  world's  bond  of  slavery. 

Men  wondered  and  some  sneered  to  see 

One  sow  what  he  could  never  reap  : 

"  For  he  is  rich,"  they  said,  "  and  young. 
And  might  drink  from  the  depths  of  luxury. 
If  he  seeks  fame,  fame  never  crowned 
The  champion  of  a  trampled  creed  : 
If  he  seeks  power,  power  is  enthroned 
'Mid  ancient  rights  r.nd  wrongs,  to  feed 
Which  hungry  wolvi^s  with  praise  and  spoil, 
Those  who  would  sil  near  power  must  toil  ; 
And  such,  there  sitting,  all  may  see. 
What  seeks  he  ?    All  that  others  seek 
He  casts  away,  like  a  vile  weed 
Which  the  sea  casts  nureturniugly. 
30 


460  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

"  That  poor  and  hungry  men  should  break 
The  laws  which  wreak  them  toil  and  scorn, 
We  understand  ;  but  Lionel 
We  know  is  rich  and  nobly  born." 

So  wondered  they  :  yet  all  men  loved 

Young  Lionel,  though  few  approved  ; 

All  but  the  priests,  whose  hatred  fell 

Like  the  unseen  blight  of  a  smiling  day, 

The  withering  honey-dew,  which  clings 

Under  the  bright  green  buds  of  May, 

While  they  unfold  their  emerald  wings  : 

For  he  made  verses  wild  and  queer 

On  the  strange  creeds  priests  hold  so  dear, 

Because  they  bring  them  land  and  gold. 

Of  devils  and  saints  and  all  such  gear, 

He  made  tales  which  whoso  heard  or  read 

Would  laugh  till  he  were  almost  dead. 

So  this  grew  a  proverb  :  "  Don't  get  old 

Till  Lionel's  '  banquet  in  hell'  you  hear, 

And  then  you  will  laugh  yourself  young  again." 

So  the  priests  hated  him,  and  he 

Repaid  their  hate  with  cheerful  glee. 

Ah  !  smiles  and  joyance  quickly  died, 

For  public  hope  grew  pale  and  dim 

In  an  altered  time  and  tide, 

And  in  its  wasting  withered  him, 

As  a  summer  flower  that  blows  too  soon 

Droops  in  the  smile  of  the  waning  moon, 

When  it  scatters  through  an  April  night 

The  frozen  dev/s  of  wrinkling  blight. 

None  now  hoped  more.     Gray  Power  «vas  seated 

Safely  on  her  ancestral  throne  ; 

And  Faith,  the  Python,  undefeated, 

Even  to  its  blood-stained  steps  dragged  on 

Her  foul  and  wounded  train,  and  men 

Were  trampled  and  deceived  again. 

And  words  and  shows  again  could  bind 

The  wailing  tribes  of  humankind 

In  scorn  and  famine.     Fire  and  blood 

Raged  round  the  raging  multitude. 

To  fields  remote  by  tyrants  sent 

To  be  the  scorned  instrument 

With  which  they  drag  from  mines  of  gore 

The  chains  their  slaves  yet  ever  wore  , 

And  in  the  streets  men  met  each  other. 

And  by  old  altars,  and  in  halls, 

And  smiled  again  at  festivals. 

But  each  man  found  in  his  heart's  brother 

Cold  cheer  ;  for  all,  though  half  deceived. 

The  outworn  creeds  again  believed, 

And  the  same  round  anew  began. 

Which  the  weary  world  yet  ever  r:m. 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  467 

Many  then  wept,  not  tears,  but  2:all 

Within  their  hearts,  like  drops  which  fall 

Wasting  the  fountain  stone  away. 

And  in  that  dark  and  evil,  day 

Djd  all  de.sires  and  tlioughts,  that  claim 

Men's  care — ambition,  friendship,  fame, 

Love,  hope,  though  hope  was  now  despair  — 

Indue  the  colors  of  this  change, 

As  from  the  all -surrounding  air 

The  earth  takes  hues  obscure  and  strange, 

W^hen  storm  and  earthquake  linger  there. 

And  so,  my  friend,  it  then  befell 
To  many,  most  to  Lionel, 
Who.se  hope  was  like  the  life  of  youth 
Within  him.  and  when  dead,  became 
A  spirit  of  unresting  tiame, 
Which  goaded  him  iu  his  di.stress 
Over  the  worlds  vast  wilderne.s.s. 
Three  years  he  left  his  native  land, 
And  on  the  fourth,  when  he  returned, 
None  knew  him  :  he  was  stricken  deep 
With  some  disease  of  mind,  and  turned 
Into  aught  unlike  Lionel. 
On  him,  on  whom,  did  he  pau.se  in  sleep, 
Serenest  smiles  were  wont  to  keep. 
And,  did  he  wake,  a  winged  band 
Of  bright  persuasions,  which  had  fed 
On  his  sweet  lips  and  liquid  eye.s. 
Kept  their  swift  pinions  half  outspread. 
To  do  on  men  his  least  command  ; 
On  him,  whom  once  'twas  paradise 
Even  to  behold,  now  misery  lay  : 
In  his  own  heart  'twas  merciless, 
To  all  things  el.se  none  may  express 
Its  innocence  and  tenderness. 

'Twas  said  that  he  had  refuge  sought 

In  love  from  his  unquiet  thought 

In  distant  land.s,  and  been  deceived 

By  some  strange  show :  for  there  werp  found, 

Blotted  with  tears  as  those  relieved 

By  their  own  words  are  wont  to  do, 

These  mournful  verses  on  the  ground, 

By  all  who  read  them  blotted  too  : 

"  How  am  I  changed  !  my  hopes  were  once  like  fire : 
I  loved,  and  I  believed  that  life  was  love. 
How  am  I  lost !  on  wings  of  swift  desire 
Among  Heaven's  winds  my  spirit  once  did  move. 
I  slept,  and  silver  dreams  did  aye  inspire 
My  liquid  sleep.     I  woke,  and  did  ajjprove 
All  nature  to  my  heart,  and  thought  to  make 
A  paradise  of  earth  for  one  sweet  sake. 


468  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

"  I  love,  but  1  believe  in  love  no  more  : 
I  feel  desire,  but  bope  not.     O,  from  sleep 
Most  vainly  must  my  weary  brain  implore 
Its  long-lost  flattery  nov/.   .  I  wake  to  weep, 
And  sit  through  the  long  day  gnawing  the  core 
Of  my  bitter  heart,  and,  like  a  miser,  keep, 
Since  none  in  what  I  feel  take  pain  or  pleasure. 
To  my  ov^^n  soul  its  self-consuming  treasure." 

He  dwelt  beside  me  near  the  sea  ; 
And  oft  in  evening  did  we  meet. 
When  the  waves,  beneath  the  starlight,  flee 
O'er  the  yellow  sands  with  silver  feet, 
And  talked.     Our  talk  was  sad  and  sweet, 
Till  slovi^ly  from  his  mien  there  passed 
The  desolation  which  it  spoke  ; 
And  smiles  —  as  when  the  lightning's  blast 
Has  parched  some  heaven-delighting  oak, 
The  next  spring  .shows  leaves  pale  and  rare. 
But  like  flowers  delicate  and  fair. 
On  its  rent  boughs  —  again  arrayed 
His  countenance  in  tender  light  : 
His  words  grew  subtle  fire,  which  made 
The  air  his  hearers  breathed  delight : 
His  motions,  like  the  winds,  were  free. 
Which  bend  the  bright  grass  gracefully. 
Then  fade  away  in  circlets  faint: 
And  winged  Hope,  on  which  upborne, 
His  soul  seemed  hovering  in  his  eyes, 
Like  some  bright  spirit  newly  born 
Floating  amid  the  sunny  skies. 
Sprang  forth  from  his  rent  heart  anew. 
Yet  o'er  his  talk  and  looks  and  mien. 
Tempering  their  loveliness  too  keen, 
Past  woe  its  shadow  backward  threw. 
Till  like  an  exhalation,  spread 
From  flowers  iialf  drunk  with  evening  dew. 
They  did  become  infectious  ;  sweet 
And  subtle  mists  of  sense  and  thought ; 
Which  rapt  us  soon,  when  we  might  meet, 
Almost  from  our  own  looks  and  aught 
The  wide  world  holds.     And  so,  his  mind 
Was  healed,  while  mine  grew  .sick  with  fear : 
For  ever  now^  his  health  declined. 
Like  some  frail  bark  which  can  not  bear 
The  impulse  of  an  altered  wind. 
Though  prosperous  ;  and  my  heart  grew  full 
Mid  its  new  joy  of  a  new  care  : 
For  his  cheek  became,  not  pale,  but  fair, 
As  rose-o'ershadowed  lilies  are  ; 
And  soon  his  deep  and  sunny  hair. 
In  this  alone  less  beautiful, 
Like  grass  in  tombs  grew  wild  and  rare. 
The  blood  in  his  translucent  veins 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  469 

Beat,  not  like  animal  life,  but  love 

Seemed  now  its  sullen  springs  to  move, 

When  life  had  failed  and  all  its  pains ; 

And  sudden  sleep  would  seize  him  oft 

Like  death,  so  calm,  but  that  a  tear. 

His  pointed  eyelashes  between. 

Would  gather  in  the  light  serene 

Of  smiles,  whose  lustre  bright  and  soft 

Beneath  lay  undulating  there. 

His  breath  was  like  inconstant  flame. 

As  eagerly  it  went  and  came  ; 

And  I  hung  o'er  him  in  his  sleep. 

Till,  like  an  image  in  the  lake 

Which  rains  disturb,  my  tears  would  break 

The  shadow  of  that  slumber  deep  ; 

Then  he  would  bid  me  not  to  weep, 

And  say  with  flattery  false,  yet  sweet, 

That  death  and  he  could  never  meet, 

If  I  would  never  part  with  him. 

And  so  we  loved,  and  did  unite 

All  that  in  us  was  yet  divided  : 

For  when  he  said,  that  many  a  rite, 

By  men  to  bind  but  once  provided, 

Could  not  be  shared  by  him  and  me, 

Or  they  would  kill  him  in  their  glee, 

I  shuddered,  and  then  laughing  said, 

"  We  will  have  rites  our  faith  to  bind, 

But  our  church  shall  be  the  starry  night, 

Our  altar  the  grassy  earth  outspread, 

And  our  priest  the  muttering  wind." 

'Twas  sunset  as  I  spoke  :  one  star 

Had  scarce  burst  forth,  when  from  afar 

The  ministers  of  misrule  sent, 

Seized  upon  Lionel,  and  bore 

His  chained  limbs  to  a  dreary  tower. 

In  the  midst  of  a  city  vast  and  wide. 

For  he,  they  said,  from  his  mind  had  bent 

Against  their  gods  keen  blasphemy. 

For  which,  though  his  soul  must  roasted  be 

In  hell's  red  lakes  immortally. 

Yet  even  on  earth  must  he  abide 

The  vengeance  of  their  slaves  —  a  trial, 

I  think,  men  call  it.     What  avail 

Are  prayers  and  tears,  which  chase  denial 

From  the  fierce  savage,  nursed  in  hate  ? 

What  the  knit  soul  that  pleading  and  pale 

Makes  vv^an  the  quivering  cheek,  which  late 

It  painted  with  its  own  delight  ? 

We  were  divided.     As  I  could, 

I  stilled  the  tingling  of  my  blood. 

And  followed  him  in  their  despite, 

As  a  widow  follows,  pale  and  wild. 

The  murderers  and  conse  of  her  only  child  ; 


470  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

And  when  we  came  to  the  prison-door, 
And  I  prayed  to  share  his  dungeon-floor 
With  prayers  which  rarely  have  been  spurned, 
And  when  men  drove  me  forth,  and  I 
Stared  with  blank  phrensy  on  the  sky, 
A  farewell  look  of  love  he  turned. 
Half  calming  me  ;  then  gazed  awhile. 
As  if  through  that  black  and  massy  pile, 
And  through  the  crowd  around  him  there, 
And  through  the  dense  and  murky  air, 
And  the  thronged  streets,  he  did  espy 
What  poets  knew  and  prophesy  ; 
And  said,  with  voice  that  made  them  shiver 
And  clung  like  music  in  my  brain, 
And  which  the  mute  walls  spoke  again. 
Prolonging  it  with  deepened  strain  — 
"  Fear  not  the  tyrants  shall  rule  for  ever, 
Or  the  priests  of  the  bloody  faith  : 
They  stand  on  the  brink  of  that  mighty  river, 
W^hose  waves  they  have  tainted  with  death : 
It  is  fed  from  the  depths  of  a  thousand  dells. 
Around  them  it  foams  and  rages  and  swells, 
And  their  swords  and  their  sceptres  I  floating  i 
Like  wrecks,  in  the  surge  of  eternity." 

I  dwelt  beside  the  prison  gate, 

And  the  strange  crowd  that  out  and  in 

Passed  —  some,  no  doubt,  with  mine  own  fate- 

Might  have  fretted  me  with  its  ceaseless  din, 

But  the  fever  of  care  was  louder  within. 

Soon,  but  too  late,  in  penitence 

Or  fear,  his  foes  released  him  thence  : 

I  saw^  his  thin  and  languid  form. 

As  leaning  on  the  jailer's  arm. 

Whose  hardened  eyes  grew  moist  the  while, 

To  meet  his  mute  and  faded  smile. 

And  hear  his  words  of  kind  farewell, 

He  tottered  forth  from  his  damp  cell. 

Many  had  never  wept  before, 

From  whom  fast  tears  then  gushed  and  fell : 

Many  will  relent  no  more. 

Who  sobbed  like  infants  then  ;  ay,  all 

Who  thronged  the  prison's  stony  hall, 

The  rulers  or  the  slaves  of  law. 

Felt  with  a  new  surprise  and  awe 

That  they  were  human,  till  strong  shame 

Made  them  again  become  the  same. 

The  prison  bloodhounds,  huge  and  grim. 

From  human  looks  the  infection  caught. 

And  fondly  crouched  and  fawned  on  him ; 

And  men  have  heard  the  prisoners  say, 

Who  in  their  rotting  dungeons  lay. 

That  from  that  hour,  throughout  one  day, 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  471 

The  fierce  despair  and  hate,  which  kept 

Their  trampled  bosoms,  almost  slept : 

When,  like  twin  vultures,  they  hung  feeding 

On  each  heart's  wound,  wide  torn  and  bleeding, 

Because  their  jailer's  rule,  they  thought. 

Grew  merciful,  like  a  parent's  sway. 

I  know  not  how,  but  we  were  free  : 

And  Lionel  sate  alone  with  me. 

As  the  carriage  drove  through  the  streets  apace ; 

And  we  looked  upon  each  other's  face  ; 

And  the  blood  in  our  fingers  intertwined 

Ran  like  the  thoughts  of  a  single  mind, 

As  the  swift  emotions  went  and  came 

Through  the  veins  of  each  united  frame. 

So  through  the  long,  long  streets  we  past 

Of  the  million-peopled  city  vast ; 

Which  is  that  desert,  where  each  one 

Seeks  his  mate,  yet  is  alone. 

Beloved  and  sought  and  mourned  of  none ; 

Until  the  clear  blue  sky  was  .seen. 

And  the  grassy  meadows  bright  and  green, 

And  then  I  sunk  in  his  embrace, 

Enclosing  there  a  mighty  space 

Of  love  :  and  .so  we  traveled  on 

By  woods  and  fields  of  yellow  flowers, 

And  towns  and  villages  and  tow^ers, 

Day  after  day  of  happy  hours. 

It  was  the  azure  time  of  June, 

When  the  skies  are  deep  in  the  stainless  noon, 

And  the  warm  and  fitful  breezes  shake 

The  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  hedgerow  briar, 

And  there  were  odors  then  to  make 

The  very  breath  we  did  respire 

A  liquid  element,  whereon 

Our  spirits,  like  delighted  things 

That  walk  the  air  on  subtle  wings, 

Floated  and  mingled  far  away, 

'Mid  the  warm  winds  of  the  sunny  day. 

And  when  the  evening  star  came  forth 

Above  the  curve  of  the  new  bent  moon, 

And  light  and  sound  ebbed  from  the  earth, 

Like  the  tide  of  the  full  and  weary  sea 

To  the  depths  of  its  own  tranquillity. 

Our  natures  to  its  own  repo.se 

Did  the  earth's  breathless  sleep  attune  : 

Like  flowers,  which  on  each  other  close 

Their  languid  leaves  when  daylight's  gone. 

We  lay,  till  new  emotions  came, 

Which  seemed  to  make  each  mortal  frame 

One  soul  of  interwoven  fiamc, 

A  life  in  life,  a  second  birth. 

In  worlds  diviner  far  than  earth. 

Which,  like  two  strains  of  harmony 


472  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

That  mingle  in  the  silent  sky, 

Then  slowly  disunite,  past  by 

And  left  the  tenderness  of  tears, 

A  soft  oblivion  of  all  fears, 

A  sweet  sleep  :  so  we  traveled  on 

Till  we  came  to  the  home  of  Lionel, 

Among  the  mountains  vs^ild  and  lone, 

Beside  the  hoary  western  sea. 

Which  near  the  verge  of  the  echoing  shore 

The  massy  forest  shadowed  o'er. 

The  ancient  stewaid,  with  hair  all  hoar, 

As  •we  alighted,  wept  to  see 

His  master  changed  so  fearfully ; 

And  the  old  man's  sobs  did  waken  me 

From  my  dream  of  unremaining  gladness ; 

The  truth  flashed  o'er  me  like  quick  madness 

"When  I  looked,  and  saw  that  there  w^as  death 

On  Lionel :  yet  day  by  day 

He  lived,  till  fear  grew  hope  and  faith, 

And  in  my  soul  I  dared  to  say. 

Nothing  so  bright  can  pass  away : 

Death  is  dark  and  foul  and  dull 

But  he  is  —  O  how  beautiful ! 

Yet  day  by  day  he  grew  more  w^eak. 

And  his  sweet  voice,  when  he  might  speak. 

Which  ne'er  was  loud,  became  more  lovs^; 

And  the  light  which  flashed  through  his  w^axen  cheek 

Grevs^  faint,  as  the  rose-like  hues  which  flow 

From  sunset  o'er  the  Alpine  snow  : 

And  death  seemed  not  like  death  in  him, 

For  the  spirit  of  life  o'er  every  limb 

Lingered,  a  mist  of  sense  and  thought. 

When  the  summer  wind  faint  odors  brought 

From  mountain  flov/ers,  even  as  it  passed 

His  cheek  would  .change,  as  the  noon-day  sea 

Which  the  dying  breeze  sweeps  fitfully. 

If  but  a  cloud  the  sky  o'ercast, 

You  might  see  his  color  come  and  go, 

And  the  softest  strain  of  music  made 

Sweet  smiles,  yet  sad,  arise  and  fade 

Amid  the  devs^  of  his  tender  eyes ; 

And  the  breath,  "with  intermitting  flow, 

Made  his  pale  lips  quiver  and  part. 

You  might  hear  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 

Gluick,  but  not  strong  ;  and  with  my  tresses 

When  oft  he  playfully  would  bind 

In  the  bowers  of  mossy  lonelinesses 

His  neck,  and  win  me  so  to  mingle 

In  the  sweet  depth  of  woven  caresses, 

And  our  faint  limbs  were  intertwined, 

Alas  !  the  unquiet  life  did  tingle 

From  mine  own  heart  through  every  vein, 

Like  a  captive  in  dreams  of  liberty, 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  473 

Who  beat  the  walls  of  his  stony  cell. 

But  his,  it  seemed  already  free, 

Like  the  shadow  of  fire  surrounding  me  ! 

On  my  faint  eyes  and  limbs  did  dwell 

That  spirit  as  it  passed,  till  soon, 

As  a  frail  cloud  w^andering  o'er  the  moon, 

Beneath  its  light  invisible, 

Is  seen  when  it  folds  its  gi'ay  wings  again 

To  alight  on  midnight's  dusky  plain. 

I  lived  and  saw,  and  the  gathering  soul 

Passed  from  beneath  that  strong  control. 

And  I  fell  on  a  life  which  was  sick  with  fear 

Of  all  the  w^oe  that  now  I  bear. 

Amid  a  bloomle.ss  myrtle  wood, 

On  a  green  and  sea-girt  promontory, 

Not  far  from  where  we  dwelt,  there  stood 

In  record  of  a  sweet  sad  story, 

An  altar  and  a  temple  bright 

Circled  by  steps,  and  o'er  the  gate 

Was  sculptured,  '•  To  Fidelity  ;" 

And  in  the  shrine  an  image  sate, 

All  veiled  :  but  there  was  seen  the  light 

Of  smiles,  which  faintly  could  express 

A  mingled  pain  and  tenderness 

Through  that  ethereal  drapery. 

The  lelt  hand  held  the  head,  the  right — 

Beyond  the  veil,  beneath  the  skin. 

You  might  see  the  nerves  quivering  within — 

Was  foi'cing  the  point  of  a  barbed  dart 

Into  its  side-convulsing  heart. 

An  unskilled  hand,  yet  one  informed 

With  genius,  had  the  marble  warmed 

With  that  pathetic  life.     This  tale 

It  told  :  A  dog  had  from  the  .sea, 

When  the  tide  was  raging  fearfully, 

Dragged  Lionel's  mother,  weak  and  pale, 

Then  died  beside  her  on  the  sand. 

And  she  that  temple  thence  bad  planned ; 

But  it  was  Lionel's  own  hand 

Had  wrought  the  image.     Each  new  moon 

That  lady  did,  in  this  lone  fane. 

The  rites  of  a  religion  sweet. 

Whose  god  was  in  her  heart  and  brain : 

The  seasons'  loveliest  flowers  were  strewn 

On  the  marble  floor  beneath  her  feet, 

And  she  brought  crowns  of  sea-buds  white, 

Whose  odor  is  so  sweet  and  faint, 

And  weeds,  like  branching  chry.solite. 

Woven  in  devices  fine  and  quaint. 

And  tears  from  her  brow^n  eyes  did  stain 

The  altar:  need  but  look  upon 

That  dying  statue,  fair  and  wan. 

If  tears  should  cease,  to  weep  again  : 


474  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

And  rare  Arabian  odors  came, 

Through  the  myrtle  copses  steaming  thence 

From  the  hissing  frankincense, 

Whose  smoke,  wool-white  as  ocean-foam, 

Hung  in  dense  flocks  beneath  the  dome, 

That  ivory  dome,  whose  azure  night 

With  golden  stars,  like  heaven,  was  bright 

O'er  the  split  cedars  pointed  flame  ; 

And  the  lady's  harp  would  kindle  there 

The  melody  of  an  old  air, 

Sofl;er  than  sleep ;  the  villagers, 

Mixed  their  religion  up  w^ith  hers, 

And  as  they  listened  round  shed  tears. 

One  eve  he  led  me  to  this  fane  : 

Daylight  on  its  last  purple  cloud 

Was  lingering  gray,  and  soon  her  strain 

The  nightingale  began  ;  now  loud, 

Climbing  in  circles  the  windless  sky, 

Nowr  dying  music ;  suddenly 

'Tis  scattered  in  a  thousand  notes. 

And  now  to  the  hushed  ear  it  floats 

Like  Held  smells  known  in  infancy. 

Then  failing,  soothes  the  air  again. 

We  sate  within  that  temple  lone. 

Pavilioned  around  with  Parian  stone : 

His  mothers  harp  stood  near,  and  oft 

I  had  awakened  music  sott 

Amid  its  wires:  the  nightingale 

Was  pausing  in  her  heaven-taught  tale  : 

"Now  drain  the  cup,"  said  Lionel, 

"  Which  the  poet-bird  has  crowned  so  well 

With  the  wine  of  her  bright  and  liquid  song ! 

Heardst  thou  not  sweet  words  among 

That  heaven-resounding  minstrelsy! 

Heardst  thou  not.  that  those  who  die 

Aw^ake  in  a  world  of  ecstacy  ? 

That  love,  when  limbs  are  interw^oven. 

And  sleep,  when  the  night  of  life  is  cloven, 

And  thought,  to  the  world's  dim  boundaries  clingir 

And  music,  when  one  beloved  is  singing, 

Is  death  ?     Let  us  drain  right  joyously 

The  cup  which  the  sweet  bird  Alls  for  me." 

He  paused,  and  to  my  lips  he  bent 

His  own  :  like  spirit  his  words  went 

Through  all  my  limbs  with  the  speed  of  fire ; 

And  his  keen  eyes,  glittering  through  mine, 

Filled  me  with  the  flame  divine. 

Which  in  their  orbs  was  burning  far. 

Like  the  light  of  an  unmeasured  star, 

In  the  sky  of  midnight  dark  and  deep  : 

Yes,  'twas  his  soul  that  did  inspire 

Sounds,  which  my  skill  could  ne'er  awaken ; 

And  first,  I  felt  my  fingers  sweep 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  475 

The  harp,  and  a  long  quivering  cry 

Burst  from  my  lips  in  symphony  : 

The  dusk  and  solid  air  was  shaken, 

As  swift  and  swifter  the  notes  came 

From  my  touch,  that  wandered  like  quick  flame, 

And  from  my  bosom,  laboring 

With  some  unutterable  thing: 

The  awful  sound  ot  my  own  voice  made 

My  faint  lips  tremble,  in  some  mood 

Of  wordless  thought  Lionel  stood 

So  pale,  that  even  beside  his  cheek 

The  snowy  cokiinii  from  its  shade 

Caught  whiteness  :  yet  his  countenance 

Raised  upward,  burned  with  radiance 

Of  spirit  piercing  joy,  whose  light. 

Like  the  moon  struggling  through  the  night 

Of  whirlwind-rifted  clouds,  did  break 

With  beams  that  might  not  he  confined. 

I  paused,  but  soon  his  gestures  kindled 

New  power,  as  by  the  moving  wind 

The  waves  are  lifted,  and  mj^  song 

To  low  soft  notes  now  changed  and  dwindled, 

And  from  the  twinkling  wires  among, 

My  languid  fingers  drew  and  flung 

Circles  of  life  dissolving  sound, 

Yet  faint :  in  aery  rings  they  bound 

My  Lionel,  who,  as  every  strain 

Grevvr  fainter  and  more  sweet,  his  mien 

Sunk  with  the  sound  relaxedly  ; 

And  slowly  now  he  turned  to  me. 

As  slowly  faded  from  his  face 

That  awful  joy  :  with  looks  serene 

He  was  soon  drawn  to  my  embrace, 

And  my  wild  song  then  died  away 

In  murmurs  :  words  I  dare  not  say 

We  mixed,  and  on  his  lips  mine  fed 

Till  they  metliought  felt  still  and  cold: 

"  What  is  it  with  thee,  love  ?"  I  said  ; 

No  word,  no  look,  no  motion  !  —  yes. 

There  was  a  change,  but  spare  to  guess, 

Nor  let  that  moment's  hope  be  told. 

I  looked,  and  knew  that  he  was  dead.        ^ 

And  fell,  as  the  eagle  on  the  plain 

Falls  when  life  deserts  her  brain. 

And  the  mortal  lightning  is  vailed  again. 

O  that  I  were  now  dead  !  but  such, 
Did  they  not,  love,  demand  too  much, 
Those  dying  murmurs  ?     He  forbad. 
O  that  I  once  au-aiu  were  mad  ! 
And  yet,  dear  Rosalind,  not  so. 
For  1  would  live  to  share  thy  woe. 
Sweet  boy  !  did  I  ibrget  thee  too  ? 


476  ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 

Alas,  we  know  not  what  we  do 
"When  we  speak  words. 

No  memory  more 
Is  in  my  mind  of  that  seashore. 
Madness  came  on  me,  and  a  troop 
Of  misty  shapes  did  seem  to  sit 
Beside  me.  on  a  ve-s-sel's  poop, 
And  the  clear  north  wind  was  driving  it. 
Tl)en  I  heard  .strange  tongues,  and  saw  strange  flowers. 
And  the  stars  methought  grew  unlike  ours, 
And  the  azure  sky  and  the  stormless  sea 
Made  me  believe  that  I  had  died, 
And  waked  in  a  world  which  was  to  me 
Drear  hell,  though  heaven  to  all  beside. 
Then  a  dead  sleep  fell  on  my  mind, 
While  animal  life  many  long  years 
Had  rescued  from  a  chasm  of  tears ; 
And  when  I  woke,  1  wept  to  find 
That  the  same  lady,  bright  and  wise, 
With  silver  locks  and  quick  brown  eyes, 
The  mother  of  my  Lionel, 
Had  tended  me  in  my  distress, 
And  died  some  months  before.     Nor  less 
Wonder,  but  far  more  peace  and  joy 
Brought  in  that  hour  my  lovely  boy  ; 
For  through  that  trance  my  .soul  had  well 
The  impress  of  thy  being  kept ; 
And  if  I  waked,  or  if  I  slept, 
No  doubt,  though  memory  faithless  be. 
Thy  image  ever  dwelt  on  me  ; 
And  thu.s,  O  Lionel !  like  thee 
Is  our  sweet  child.     'Tis  .sui-e  most  strange 
I  knew  not  of  so  great  a  change. 
As  that  which  gave  him  birth,  who  now 
Is  all  the  solace  of  my  woe. 

That  Lionel  great  wealth  had  left 
By  will  to  me,  and  that  of  all 
The  ready  lies  of  law  bereft, 
My  child  and  me  might  well  befall. 
But  let  me  think  not  of  the  scorn. 
Which  fr8m  the  meanest  I  have  borne. 
When,  for  my  child's  beloved  sake, 
I  mixed  with  slaves,  to  vindicate 
The  very  laws  themselves  do  make  : 
Let  me  not  say  scorn  is  my  fate, 
Lest  I  be  proud,  suffering'the  same 
With  those  who  live  in  deathless  fame. 

She  ceased.  —  "  Lo,  where  red  morning  through  the  woods 

Is  burning  o'er  the  dew  !"  said  Ro.sahnd. 

And  with  these  words  they  ro.se,  and  toward  the  flood 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN.  477 

Of  the  blue  lake,  beneath  the  leaves  now  wind 

"With  equal  steps  and  fingers  intertwined  : 

Thence  to  a  lonely  dwelling,  where  the  shore 

Is  shadowed  with  rocks,  and  cypresses 

Cleave  w^ith  their  dark  green  cones  the  silent  skies, 

And  with  their  shadows  the  clear  depths  below 

And  where  a  little  terrace  from  its  bowers, 

Of  blooming  myrtle  and  faint  lemon-flowers, 

Scatters  its  sense-dissolving  fragrance  o'er 

The  liquid  marble  of  the  windless  lake  ; 

And  where  the  aged  forest's  limbs  look  hoar, 

Under  the  leaves  which  their  green  garments  make, 

They  come  :  'tis  Helen's  home,  and  clean  and  white,- 

Like  one  which  tyrants  spare  on  our  ow^n  land 

In  some  such  solitude,  its  casements  bright 

Shone  through  their  vine-leaves  in  the  morning  sun. 

And  even  within  'twas  scarce  like  Italy. 

And  when  she  saw  how  all  things  there  were  planned, 

As  in  an  English  home,  dim  memory 

Disturbed  poor  Rosalind  :  she  stood  as  one 

Whose  mind  is  where  his  body  can  not  be. 

Till  Helen  led  her  where  her  child  yet  slept, 

And  said.  "  Observe,  that  brow^  was  Lionel's, 

Those  lips  were  his,  and  so  he  ever  kept 

One  arm  in  sleep,  pillowing  his  head  with  it. 

You  can  not  see  his  eyes  —  they  are  two  wells 

Of  liquid  love  :  let  us  not  wake  him  yet." 

But  Rosalind  could  bear  no  more,  and  wept 

A  shower  of  burning  tears,  which  fell  upon 

His  face,  and  so  his  opening  lashes  shone 

With  tears  unlike  his  own,  as  be  did  leap 

In  sadden  wonder  from  his  innocent  sleep. 

So  Rosalind  and  Helen  lived  together 

Thenceforth,  changed  in  all  else,  yet  friends  again. 

Such  as  they  were,  when  o'er  the  mountain  heather 

They  wandered  in  their  youth,  through  sun  and  rain. 

And  after  many  years — for  human  things 

Change  even  like  the  ocean  and  the  wind  — 

Her  daughter  was  restored  to  Rosalind, 

And  in  their  circle  thence  some  visitings 

Of  joy  'mid  their  new  calm  would  intervene  : 

A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene. 

And  motions  which  o'er  things  indifferent  shed 

The  grace  and  gentleness  from  whence  they  came. 

And  Helen's  boy  grew  with  her,  and  they  fed 

From  the  same  flowers  of  thought,  until  each  mind 

Like  springs  which  mingle  in  one  flood  became, 

And  in  their  union  soon  their  parents  saw 

The  shadow  of  the  peace  denied  to  them. 

And  Rosalind  —  for  when  the  living  stem 

Is  cankered  in  its  heart,  the  tree  mu.st  fall — 

Died  ere  her  time  ;  and  with  deep  grief  and  awe 


478  LINES    WRITTEN    AMONG 

The  pale  survivors  followed  her  remains 

Beyond  the  region  of  dissolving  rains. 

Up  the  cold  mountain  she  was  wont  to  call 

Her  tomb  ;  and  on  Chiavenna's  precipice 

They  raised  a  pyramid  of  lasting  ice, 

Whose  polished  sides,  ere  day  had  yet  begun, 

Caught  the  first  glow  of  the  unrisen  sun, 

The  last,  when  it  had  sunk  ;  and  through  the  night 

The  charioteers  of  Arctos  wheeled  round 

Its  glittering  point,  as  .seen  from  Helen's  home, 

Whose  sad  inhabitants  each  year  would  come, 

With  willing  steps  climbing  that  rugged  hight, 

And  hang  long  locks  of  hair,  and  garlands  bound 

With  amaranth  flowers,  which,  in  the  clime's*  despite, 

Filled  the  frore  air  with  unaccustomed  light : 

Such  flowers,  as  in  the  wintry  memory  bloom 

Of  one  friend  left,  adorned  that  frozen  tomb. 

Helen,  whose  spirit  was  of  softer  mould, 

W^hose  sufferings  too  were  less,  Death  slowlier  led 

Into  the  peace  of  his  dominions  cold  : 

She  died  among  her  kindred,  being  old. 

And  know,  that  if  love  die  not  in  the  dead 

As  in  the  living,  none  of  mortal  kind 

Are  blest  as  now  Helen  and  Rosalind. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE   EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan. 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  ves-sel's  track  ; 
While  above,  the  sunless  sky, 
Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 
And  behind  the  tempest  fleet  ^ 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet. 
Riving  sail  and  cord  and  plank, 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep  , 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  .seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity  ; 
And  the  dim  low^  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 
Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 
Longing  with  divided  will, 


«fe» 


THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS.  479 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifY.ed  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave, 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What,  if  there  no  friends  will  greet ; 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat ; 

Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may, 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress  ? 

Then  'twill  wreak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no  : 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold. 

Which  relenting  love  would  fold  ; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 

Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill  : 

Every  little  living  nerve 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally, 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep, 

Lies  a  solitary  heap, 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones. 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones. 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand. 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land  : 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale  ; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town, 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides  : 

Those  unburied  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound  ; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him, 

Like  a  sunless  vapor,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 

'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean,  " 

I  stood  listening  to  the  pman 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majcstical ; 


480  LINES    WRITTEN    AMONG 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 
Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 
Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
In  the  unfathomable  sky. 
So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 
Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain. 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 
On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 
Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail, 
And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright  and  clear  and  still 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair ; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes, 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies  — 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls. 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsp rings  behind. 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light. 
As  within  a  furnace  bright. 
Column,  tower,  and  dome  and  spire, 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire. 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies : 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Snn-girt  city !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen  ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 


THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS.  481 

Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
"With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day,^ 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep. 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
duivering  through  aerial  gold. 
As  I  now  behold  them  here. 
Would  imagine  not  they  wei*e 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms. 
Like  pollution-nourished  worms 
To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 
Murdered,  and  now  mouldering  : 
But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 
From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 
All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold. 
Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 
Chained  like  thee  ingloriously, 
Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 
Might  adorn  this  sunny  land. 
Twining  memories  of  old  time 
With  new  virtues  more  sublime  ; 
If  not,  perish  thou  and  they  ; 
Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 
By  her  sun  consumed  away. 
Earth  can  spare  ye  ;  while  like  flowers. 
In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours. 
From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 
With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

PeSrish  !  let  there  only  be 
Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea. 
As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 
Clothes  the  world  immortally. 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime  ^ 

Than  the  tattered  pall  of  Time, 
Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan : 
That  a  tempest-cleavmg  swan 
Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 
31 


482  LINES    WRITTEN    AMONG 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 
By  the  might  of  evil  dreams, 
Found  a  nest  in  thee  ;  and  Ocean 
Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 
That  its  joy  grew  his.  and  sprung 
From  his  lips  like  music  flung 
O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit. 
Chastening  terror :  what  though  yet 
Poesy's  unfailing  river, 
"Which  through  Albion  winds  for  ever. 
Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  ^  sacred  poet's  grave, 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled  ! 
What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 
Aught  thine  own,  oh,  rather  say, 
Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 
Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul ! 
As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 
Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs  ; 
As  divinest  Shakspeare's  might 
rills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 
Like  omniscient  power,  which  he 
Imaged  'mid  mortality ; 
As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn. 
Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 
A  quenchless  lamp,  by  which  the  heart 
Sees  things  unearthly  ;  so  tliou  art. 
Mighty  spirit :  so  shall  be 
The  city  that  did  refuge  tliee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread. 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now. 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
'Mid  the  harvest  shining  plain, 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
In  the  garner  of  his  foe. 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain, 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
^      Drunken  sleep  with  .savage  will ; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  .sword 
Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord, 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison. 
Overgrows  this  region's  foison, 


THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS.  483 

Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest  home  : 
Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow, 
Or  worse ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 
That  love  or  reason  can  not  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  w^alls 

Those  mute  guests  at  festivals, 

Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 

Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin,  v 

Till  Death  cried  "  I  win,  1  win!" 

And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager, 

But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her. 

That  he  would  petition  for 

Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 

When  the  destined  years  were  o'er. 

Over  all  between  the  Po 

And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow. 

Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 

Sin  smiled  so  as  sin  only  can, 

And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before. 

Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore, 

That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 

Tyrants  as  tlie  sun  the  swallow, 

As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 

And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  novv^  no  more  is  burning j 

Like  a  meteor,  "whose  wild  w^ay 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray  ; 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth ; 

Now  new  firesjrom  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells. 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells, 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes. 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes, 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born ; 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead, 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed  ^ 

Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 

With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 

And  sinks  down  in  fear  :  so  thou, 

O  tyranny  !  beholdest  now 


484    LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS. 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 
The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest : 
Grovel  on  the  earth ;  ay,  hide 
In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now  : 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst. 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 
MingUng  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
rills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winged  feet. 
Whose  bright  brint  is  gleaming  yet ; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines. 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  ; 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air ;  the  flow^er 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandaled  Apennine 
In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 
And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 
High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 
And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 
And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 
Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  strong, 
Interpenetrated  lie 
By  the  glory  of  the  sky ; 
Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 
Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 
Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 
Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 
Peopling  the  lone  universe. 
Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 
Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 
Leading  the  infantine  moon 
And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 
Almost  seems  to  minister 
Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 
From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 
0      (Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 
To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 
'Mid  remembered  agonies, 
The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 
Pass,  to  other  sufi'erers  fleeing, 


SONG    FOR    TASSO.  485 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 
Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  Life  and  Agony : 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf:  even  now,  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love. 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain  and  guilt. 

In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills, 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round. 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

We  may  live  so  happy  there. 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air. 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude  ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm. 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies, 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain. 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 


SONG  FOR  TASSO. 

I  LOVED  —  alas  !  our  life  is  love ; 

But  when  we  cease  to  breathe  and  move, 

I  do  suppose  love  ceases  too. 

I  thought,  but  not  as  now  I  do, 

Keen  thoughts  and  bright  of  linked  lore, 


486  TO    MARY 


Of  all  that  men  had  thought  before, 
And  all  that  nature  shows,  and  more. 

And  still  I  love  and  still  I  think, 
But  strangely,  for  my  heart  can  drink 
The  dregs  of  such  despair,  and  live, 
And  love  ; 

And  if  I  think,  my  thoughts  come  fast ; 
I  mix  the  present  -with  the  past. 
And  each  seems  uglier  than  the  last. 

Sometimes  I  see  before  me  flee 

A  silver  spirit's  form,  like  thee, 

O  Leonora,  and  I  sit 

[  ]  still  watching  it. 

Till  by  the  grated  casement's  ledge 

It  fades,  with  such  a  sigh  as  sedge 

Breathes  o'er  the  breezy  streamlet's  edge 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  APENNINES. 

Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine. 

To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine, 

It  bursts  on  the  roof  like  the  thunder's  roar. 

Or  like  the  sea  on  a  northern  shore. 

Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow 

By  the  captives  pent  in  the  cave  below. 

The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 

Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  gray. 

Which  between  the  earth  and  sky  doth  lay  ; 

But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 

On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread, 

And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the  storm. 

May  4, 1818. 


TO  MARY 


O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here 
With  your  brown  eyes  bright  and  clear, 
And  your  sw^eet  voice,  like  a  bird 
Singing  love  to  its  lone  mate 
In  the  ivy  bower  disconsolate  : 
Voice  the  sweetest  ever  heard  ! 
And  your  brow  more    f        *        * 
Than  the        *        *        *        sky 


MAZENGHI.  487 


Of  this  azure  Italy. 
Mary  dear,  come  to  me  soon, 
I  am  not  well  while  thou  art  far ; 
As  sunset  to  the  sphered  moon, 
As  twilight  to  the  western  star, 
Thou,  beloved,  art  to  me. 

O  Maiy  dear,  that  you  were  here ! 
The  castle  echo  whispers,  "  Here  !' 

September,  1818. 


THE  PAST. 

"Wilt  thou  forget  the  happy  hours 
Which  we  buried  in  Love's  sweet  bowers, 
Heaping  over  their  corpses  cold 
Blossoms  and  leaves,  instead  of  mould  ? 
Blossoms  which  were  the  joys  that  fell. 
And  leaves,  the  hopes  that  yet  remain. 

Forget  the  dead,  the  past  ?     O  yet 

There  are  ghosts  that  may  take  revenge  for  it ; 

Memories  that  make  the  heart  a  tomb, 

Regrets  which  glide  through  the  spirit's  gloom, 

And  with  ghastly  whispers  tell 

That  joy,  once  lost,  is  pain. 


MAZENGHI.* 

O  \  FOSTER-NURSE  of  man's  abandoned  glory 
Since  Athens,  its  great  mother,  sunk  in  splendor ! 
Thou  shadowest  forth  that  mighty  shape  in  story. 
As  ocean  its  wrecked  fanes,  severe  yet  tender : 
The  light-invested  angel  Poesy 
Was  drawn  from  the  dim  world  to  welcome  thee. 

And  thou  in  painting  didst  transcribe  all  taught 

By  loftiest  meditations  ;  marble  knew 

The  sculptor's  fearless  soul  —  and,  as  he  wrought, 

The  grace  of  his  own  power  and  freedom  grew, 

And  more  than  all.  heroic,  just,  sublime. 

Thou  wert  among  the  false  —  was  this  thy  crime  ? 

*  This  fragment  refers  to  an  event,  told  in  Sismondi's  '  HUtoire  dtt  Republiqties  Ital- 
iennet,'  Which  occurred  during  tlie  war  when  Florence  finally  subdued  Pisa,  and  reduced 
it  to  a  pi'oviuce.     The  opening  stanzas  are  addressed  to  the  conquering  city. 


488  MAZENGHI. 

Yes  :  and  on  Pisa's  marble  walls  the  twine 
Of  direst  weeds  hangs  garlanded  —  the  snake 
Inhabits  its  wrecked  palaces  ;  in  thine 
A  beast  of  subtler  venom  now  doth  make 
Its  lair,  and  sits  amid  their  glories  overthrown, 
And  thus  thy  victim's  fate  is  as  thine  own. 

The  sweetest  flowers  are  ever  frail  and  rare, 
And  love  and  freedom  blossom  but  to  wither  ; 
And  good  and  ill  like  vines  entangled  are. 
So  that  their  grapes  may  oft  be  plucked  together  — 
Divide  the  vintage  ere  thou  drink,  then  make 
Thy  heart  rejoice  for  dead  Mazenghi's  sake. 

No  record  of  his  crime  remains  in  story 
But  if  the  morning  bright  as  evening  shone, 
It  was  some  high  and  holy  deed,  by  glory 
Pursued  into  forgetfulness,  which  v/on 
From  the  blind  crowd  he  made  secure  and  free 
The  patriot's  meed  —  toil,  death  and  infamy. 

For  when  by  sound  of  trumpet  was  declared 
A  price  upon  his  life,  and  there  was  set 
A  penalty  of  blood  on  all  who  shared 
So  much  of  water  with  him  as  might  wet 
His  lips,  which  speech  divided  not — he  went 
Alone,  as  you  may  guess,  to  banishment. 

Amid  the  mountains,  like  a  hunted  beast. 
He  hid  himself,  and  hunger,  cold  and  toil 
Month  after  month  endured  ;  it  was  a  feast 
Whene'er  he  found  those  globes  of  deep-red  gold 
Which  in  the  woods  the  strawberry-tree  doth  bear. 
Suspended  in  their  emerald  atmosphere. 

And  in  the  roofless  huts  of  vast  morasses. 
Deserted  by  the  fever-stricken  serf. 
All  overgrown  with  reeds  and  long  rank  grasses. 
And  hillocks  heaped  of  moss-inwoven  tarf, 
And  where  the  huge  and  speckled  aloe  made. 
Rooted  in  stones,  a  broad  and  pointed  shade. 

He  housed  himself.     There  is  a  point  of  strand 
Near  Vada's  tower  and  town  ;  and  on  one  side 
The  treacherous  marsh  divides  it  from  the  land. 
Shadowed  by  pine  and  ilex  forests  wide ; 
And  on  the  other  creeps  eternally, 
Through  muddy  weeds,  the  shallow  sullen  sea. 

Nc^let,  1818. 


THE    WOODMAN    AND    THE    NIGHTINGALE.      489 


THE  WOODMAN  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


A  WOODMAN,  whose  rough  heart  was  out  of  tune 
(I  think  such  hearts  yet  never  came  to  good), 
Hated  to  hear,  under  the  stars  or  moon, 

One  nightingale  in  an  interflaous  wood 
Satiate  the  hungry  dark  with  melody ; 
And,  as  a  vale  is  watered  by  a  flood, 

Or  as  the  moonlight  fills  the  open  sky 
Struggling  with  darkness —  as  a  tuberose 
Peoples  some  Indian  dell  with  scents  which  lie 

Like  clouds  above  the  flower  from  which  they  rose, 
The  singing  of  that  happy  nightingale 
In  this  sweet  forest,  from  the  golden  close 

Of  evening  till  the  star  of  dav/n  may  fail. 
Was  interfused  upon  the  silentness ; 
The  folded  roses  and  the  violets  pale 

Heard  her  within  their  slumbers  ;  the  abyss 
Of  heaven  with  all  its  planets  ;  tlae  dull  ear 
Of  the  night-cradled  earth  ;  the  loneliness 

Of  the  circumfluous  waters  —  every  sphere 
And  every  flower  and  beam  and  cloud  and  wave. 
And  every  wind  of  the  mute  atmosphere, 

And  every  beast  stretched  in  its  rugged  cave. 
And  every  bird  lulled  on  its  mossy  bough, 
And  every  silver  moth  fresh  from  the  grave. 

Which  is  its  cradle  —  ever  from  below 
Aspiring  like  one  who  loves  too  fair,  too  far. 
To  be  consumed  within  the  purest  glow 

Of  one  serene  and  unapproached  star. 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  light. 
Unconscious,  as  some  human  lovers  are. 

Itself  how  low,  how  high  beyond  all  hight 

The  heaven  vs'here  it  would  perish  !  —  and  every  form 

That  worshiped  in  the  temple  of  the  night 

Was  awed  into  delight,  and  by  the  charm 

Girt  as  with  an  interminable  zone. 

While  that  sweet  bird,  whose  music  was  a  storm 


490  STANZAS. 

Of  sound,  shook  forth  the  dull  oblivion 
Out  of  their  dreams  ;  harmony  became  love 
In  every  soul  but  one 


And  so  this  man  returned  with  ax  and  saw 
At  evening  close  from  killing  the  tall  treen, 
The  soul  of  whom  by  nature's  gentle  law 

Was  each  a  wood-nymph,  and  kept  ever  green 
The  pavement  and  the  roof  of  the  wild  copse, 
Checkei'ing  the  sunlight  of  the  blue  serene 

With  jagged  leaves  —  and  from  the  forest  tops 
Singing  the  winds  to  sleep  —  or  weeping  oft 
Fast  showers  of  aerial  water-drops 

Into  their  mother's  bosom,  sweet  and  soft. 
Nature's  pure  tears  which  have  no  bitterness ; 
Around  the  cradles  of  the  birds  aloft 

They  spread  themselves  into  the  loveliness 
Of  fan-like  leaves,  and  over  pallid  flowers 
Hang  like  moist  clouds  —  or,  where  high  branches  kiss, 

Make  a  green  space  among  the  silent  bowers, 
Like  a  vast  fane  in  a  metropolis, 
Surrounded  by  the  columns  and  the  towers 

All  overwrought  with  branch  hke  traceries 
In  which  there  is  religion  —  and  the  mute 
Persuasion  of  unkindled  melodies. 

Odors  and  gleams  and  murmurs,  which  the  lute 

Of  the  blind  pilot-spirit  of  the  blast 

Stirs  as  it  sails,  now  grave  and  now  acute, 

Wakening  the  leaves  and  waves  ere  it  has  past 
To  such  brief  unison  as  on  the  brain 
One  tone,  which  never  can  recur,  has  cast. 

One  accent  never  to  return  again. 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN   IN   DEJECTION,    NEAR   NAPr.ES. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  monutaius  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  light, 


STANZAS. 


491 


The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light, 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  imtrampled  floor 

"With  green  and  purple  seaw^eeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown: 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion. 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  w^ithin  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned  — 

Nor  fame  nor  power  nor  love  nor  leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  : 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  aw^ay  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone. 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old. 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  ; 
They  might  lament  —  for  I  am  one 

Whom  men  love  not  —  and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set. 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 

Deeember,  1818. 


492  INVOCATION    TO    MISERY. 


MISERY.  — A  FRAGMENT 

Come,  be  happy }  —  sit  near  me. 
Shadow- vested  Misery : 
Coy,  unwilling,  silent  bride. 
Mourning  in  thy  robe  of  pride> 
Desolation  —  deified ! 

Come,  be  happy  !  — sit  near  me  : 
Sad  as  I  may  seem  to  thee, 
I  am  happier  far  than  thou. 
Lady,  whose  imperial  brow 
Is  endiademed  with  woe. 

Misery  !  we  have  known  each  other. 
Like  a  sister  and  a  brother. 
Living  in  the  same  lone  home. 
Many  years  —  we  must  live  some 
Hours  or  ages  yet  to  come. 

'Tis  an  evil  lot,  and  yet 

Let  us  make  the  best  of  it ; 

If  love  can  live  when  pleasure  die^ 

"We  two  will  love,  till  in  our  eyes 

This  heart's  hell  seem  paradise. 

Come,  be  happy  I  —  lie  thee  down 
On  the  fresh  grass  newly  mown, 
"Where  the  grasshopper  doth  sing 
Merrily  —  one  joyous  thing 
In  a  world  of  sorrowing  ! 

There  our  tent  shall  be  the  willow, 
And  mine  arm  shall  be  thy  pillow ; 
Sounds  and  odors,  sorrowful 
.  Because  they  once  were  sweet,  shall  lull 
Us  to  slumber  deep  and  dulL 

Ha  !  thy  frozen  pulses  flutter 

With  a  love  thou  dar'st  not  utter. 

Thou  art  murmuring  —  thou  art  weeping - 

Is  thine  icy  bosom  leaping 

While  my  burning  heart  lies  sleeping  ? 

JCiss  me :  oh  !  thy  lips  are  cold ; 
Round  my  neck  thine  arras  enfold — 
They  are  soft,  but  chill  and  dead  ; 
And  thy  tears  upon  my  head 
Bum  like  points  of  frozen  lead. 


ON    A    FADED    VIOLET.  493 

Hasten  to  the  bridal  bed  — 
Underneath  the  grave  'tis  spread : 
In  darkness  may  our  love  be  hid, 
Oblivion  be  our  coverlid  — 
We  may  rest,  and  none  forbid. 

Clasp  me,  till  our  hearts  be  grown 
Like  tw^o  shadow^s  into  one ; 
Till  this  dreadful  transport  may 
Like  a  vapor  fade  away 
In  the  sleep  that  lasts  alway. 

We  may  dream  in  that  long  sleep, 
That  we  are  not  those  who  weep  ; 
Even  as  Pleasure  dreams  of  thee, 
Life-deserting  Misery, 
Thau  mayest  dream  of  her  with  me. 

Let  us  laugh,  and  make  our  mirth. 

At  the  shadows  of  the  earth. 

As  dogs  bay  the  moonlight  clouds, 

Which,  like  spectres  wrapped  in  shroud^ 

Pass  o'er  night  in  multitudes. 

All  the  wide  world,  beside  us 
Show  like  multitudinous 
Puppets  passing  from  a  scene  ; 
What  but  mockery  can  they  mean. 
Where  I  am  —  where  thou  hast  been  ? 


ON  A  FADED  VIOLET. 

The  color  from  the  flower  is  gone. 
Which  like  thy  sweet  eyes  smiled  on  me ; 

The  odor  from  the  flower  is  flown, 

Which  breathed  of  thee  and  only  thee  ! 

A  withered,  lifeless,  vacant  form. 
It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast. 

And  mocks  the  heart  w^hich  yet  is  warm 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 

I  weep — my  tears  revive  it  not. 

I  sigh  —  it  breathes  no  more  on  me  ; 
Its  mute  and  uncomplnining  lot 

Is  such  as  mine  should  be. 


494  SONNET. 


SONNET. 


Lift  not  the  painted  vail  which  those  who  live 
Call  Life  :  though  unreal  shapes  be  pictured  there, 
And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
"With  colors  idly  spread  —  behind,  lurk  Pear 
And  Hope,  twin  Destinies,  who  ever  weave 
Their  shadows,  o'er  the  chasm,  sightless  and  drear. 

I  knew  one  who  had  lifted  it :  he  sought  — 
For  his  lost  heart  was  tender  —  things  to  love, 
But  found  them  not,  alas  !  nor  was  there^ aught 
The  world  contains,  the  which  he  could  approve. 
Through  the  unheeding  many  he  did  move, 
A  splendor  among  shadows,  a  bright  blot 
Upon  this  gloomy  scene,  a  spirit  that  strove 
For  truth,  and,  like  the  Preacher,  found  it  not. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1819. 


THE  MASaUE  OF  ANARCHY. 


As  I  lay  asleep  in  Italy, 
There  came  a  voice  from  over  the  sea, 
And  with  great  pow^er  it  forth  led  me 
To  walk  in  the  visions  of  Poesy. 


I  met  Murder  on  the  way  — 
He  had  a  mask  like  Castlereagh — 
Very  smooth  he  looked,  yet  grim ; 
Seven  bloodhounds  followed  him : 


All  were  fat ;  and  well  they  might 

Be  in  admirable  plight, 

For  one  by  one,  and  two  by  two. 

He  tossed  them  human  hearts  to  chew. 

Which  from  his  wide  cloak  he  drew. 


Next  came  Fraud,  and  he  had  on, 

Like  Lord  E ,  an  ermine  gown  ; 

His  big  tears  —  for  he  wept  well  — 
Turned  to  millstones  as  they  fell ; 


And  the  little  children,  who 
Round  his  feet  played  to  and  fro, 
Thinking  every  tear  a  gem. 
Had  their  brains  knocked  out  by  them. 


496        THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY. 


Clothed  with  the  *  *  as  with  light, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
Like  *  *  *  next,  Hypocrisy, 
On  a  crocodile  came  by. 


And  many  more  Destructions  played 
In  this  ghastly  masquerade, 
All  disguised,  even  to  the  eyes, 
Like  bishops,  lawyers,  peers  or  spies. 

VIII. 

Last  came  Anarchy  :  he  rode 

On  a  white  horse,  splashed  with  blood 

He  was  pale  even  to  the  lips, 

Like  Death  in  the  Apocalypse. 


And  he  w^ore  a  kingly  crown  ; 
In  his  hand  a  sceptre  shone  ; 
On  his  brow  this  mark  I  saw  — 
"  I  am  God  and  King  and  Law  !" 


With  a  pace  stately  and  fast. 
Over  English  land  he  past, 
TrampHng  to  a  mire  of  blood 
The  adoring  multitude. 


And  a  mighty  troop  around, 

"With  their  trampling  shook  the  ground, 

Waving  each  a  bloody  sword, 

For  the  service  of  their  lord. 


And  with  glorious  triumph  they 
Rode  through  England,  proud  and  gay, 
Drunk  as  with  intoxication 
Of  the  wine  of  desolation. 

XIII. 

O'er  fields  and  towns,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Passed  the  pageant  swift  and  free, 
Tearing  up,  and  trampling  down, 
Till  they  came  to  London  town. 


And  each  dweller,  panic-stricken, 
Felt  his  heart  with  terror  sicken. 
Hearing  the  tremendous  cry 
Of  the  triumph  of  Anarchy. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY.        497 


For  with  pomp  to  meet  him  came, 
Clothed  in  arms  like  blood  and  flame, 
The  hired  murderers  who  did  sing, 
"  Thou  art  God  and  Law  and  King  ! 


"  We  have  waited,  weak  and  lone, 
For  thy  coming,  Mighty  One  ! 
Our  purses  are  empty,  our  swords  are  cold, 
Give  us  glory  and  blood  and  gold  !" 


Lawyers  and  priests,  a  motley  crowd, 
To  the  earth  their  pale  brows  bowed, 
Like  a  bad  prayer  not  over  loud, 
Whispering,  "  Thou  art  Law  and  God  !' 

XVIII. 

Then  all  cried  with  one  accord, 
"  Thou  art  King  and  Law  and  Lord ; 
Anarchy,  to  thee  we  bow. 
Be  thy  name  made  holy  now  !" 


And  Anarchy,  the  skeleton, 
Bow^ed  and  grinned  to  eveiy  one, 
As  well  as  if  his  education 
Had  cost  ten  millions  to  the  nation. 

XX. 

For  he  knew  the  palaces 
Of  our  kings  were  nightly  his ; 
His  the  sceptre,  crown  and  globe, 
And  the  gold-inwoven  robe. 


So  he  sent  his  slaves  before 
To  seize  upon  the  bank  and  tower. 
And  was  proceeding  with  intent 
To  meet  his  pensioned  parliament. 


When  one  fled  past,  a  maniac  maid. 
And  her  name  was  Hope,  she  said  : 
But  she  looked  more  like  Despair ; 
And  ehe  cried  out  in  the  air  — 


"  My  father,  Time  is  weak  and  gray 
With  waiting  for  a  better  day  ; 
See  how  idiot-like  he  stands. 
Trembling  with  his  palsied  hands  ? 


498        THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY. 
XXIV. 

"  He  has  had  child  after  child, 
And  the  dust  of  death  is  piled 
Over  every  one  but  me  — 
Misery  !  oh,  misery  !" 


Then  she  lay  down  in  the  street. 
Right  before  the  horses'  feet, 
Expecting,  with  a  patient  eye, 
Murder,  Fraud  and  Anarchy. 

XXVI. 

When  between  her  and  her  foes 
A  mist,  a  light,  an  image  rose, 
Small  at  first,  and  weak  and  frail 
Like  the  vapor  of  the  vale  : 


Till  as  clouds  grow  on  the  blast. 
Like  tower-crowned  giants  striding  fast. 
And  glare  with  lightnings  as  they  fly, 
And  speak  in  thunder  to  the  sky, 

XXVIII. 

It  grew  —  a  shape  arrayed  in  mail 
Brighter  than  the  viper's  scale, 
And  upborne  on  wings  whose  grain 
Was  like  the  light  of  sunny  rain. 


On  its  helm,  seen  far  away, 

A  planet,  like  the  morning's,  lay  ; 

And  those  plumes  it  light  rained  through. 

Like  a  shower  of  crimson  dew. 


With  step  as  soft  as  w^ind  it  passed 
O'er  the  heads  of  men  —  so  fast 
That  they  knew  the  presence  there, 
And  looked  —  and  all  was  empty  air. 

XXXI. 

As  flowers  beneath  May's  footsteps  waken, 
As  stars  from  night's  loose  hair  are  shaken, 
As  waves  arise  when  loud  winds  call. 
Thoughts  sprung  where'er  that  step  did  fall. 


And  the  prostrate  multitude 
Looked — and  ankle-deep  in  blood, 
Hope,  that  maiden  most  serene, 
Was  walking  with  a  quiet  mien : 


THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY.        499 


And  Anarchy,  the  ghastly  birth, 

Lay  dead  earth  upon  the  earth  ; 

The  horse  of  Death,  tameless  as  wind, 

Fled,  and  with  his  hoofs  did  grind 

To  dust  the  murderers  thronged  behind. 


A  rushing  light  of  clouds  and  splendor, 
A  sense,  awakening  and  yet  tender, 
Was  heard  and  felt  —  and  at  its  close 
These  words  of  joy  and  fear  arose  : 


As  if  their  own  indignant  earth. 
Which  gave  the  sons  of  England  birth, 
Had  felt  their  blood  upon  her  brow. 
And  shuddering  with  a  mother's  throe. 


Had  turned  every  drop  of  blood. 

By  which  her  face  had  been  bedewed. 

To  an  accent  unwithstood, 

As  if  her  heart  had  cried  aloud  — 

XXXVII. 

"  Men  of  England,  heirs  of  glory. 
Heroes  of  unwritten  story, 
Nurslings  of  one  mighty  mother, 
Hopes  of  her,  and  one  another  ! 

XXXVIII. 

"  Rise,  like  lions  after  slumber, 
In  unvanquishable  number, 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth  like  dew 
Which  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you. 
Ye  are  many,  they  are  few. 

XXXIX. 

"  What  is  freedom  ?     Ye  can  tell 
That  which  slavery  is  too  well, 
For  its  very  name  has  grown 
To  an  echo  of  your  own. 


"  'Tis  to  work,  and  have  such  pay 
As  just  keeps  life  from  day  to  day 
In  your  limbs,  as  in  a  cell, 
For  the  tyrants'  use  to  dwell : 

XLI. 

"  So  that  ye  for  them  are  made. 
Loom  and  plow  and  sword  and  spade  ; 
With  or  without  your  own  will,  bent 
To  their  defense  and  nourisliment. 


500         THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY. 


"  'Tis  to  see  your  children  weak 
With  their  mothers  pine  and  peak, 
"When  the  winter  winds  are  bleak  : 
They  are  dying  while  I  speak. 


"  'Tis  to  hunger  for  such  diet, 
As  the  rich  man  in  his  riot 
Casts  to  the  fat  dogs  that  lie 
Surfeiting  beneath  his  eye. 

XL  IV. 

"  'Tis  to  let  the  Ghost  of  Gold 
Take  from  toil  a  thousand-fold 
More  than  e'er  its  substance  could 
In  the  tyrannies  of  old  : 


"  Paper  coin  —  that  forgery 
Of  the  title  deeds,  which  ye 
Hold  to  something  of  the  worth 
Of  the  inheritance  of  Earth. 


"  'Tis  to  be  a  slave  in  soul, 
And  to  hold  no  strong  control 
Over  your  own  wills,  but  be 
All  that  others  make  of  ye. 


"  And  at  length  when  ye  complain, 
"With  a  murmur  weak  and  vain, 
'Tis  to  see  the  tyrant's  crew 
Ride  over  your  -wives  and  you  :  — 
Blood  is  on  the  grass  like  dew ! 

XL  vm. 

"  Then  it  is  to  feel  revenge, 

Fiercely  thirsting  to  exchange 

Blood  for  blood  —  and  wrong  for  wrong : 

Do  not  thus,  when  ye  are  strong ! 


"  Birds  find  rest  in  nan'ow  nest, 
"When  weary  of  their  winged  quest ; 
Beasts  find  fare  in  woody  lair. 
When  storm  and  snow  are  in  the  air. 


"  Horses,  oxen,  have  a  home. 
When  from  daily  toil  they  come ; 
Household  dogs,  when  the  wind  roars, 
Find  a  home  within  warm  doors. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY.         501 


"  Asses,  swine,  have  litter  spread, 
And  with  fitting  food  are  fed  ; 
All  things  have  a  home  but  one  : 
Thou,  oh  Englishman,  hast  none ! 


"  This  is  slavery  —  savage  men, 
Or  wild  beasts  within  a  den, 
Would  endure  not  as  ye  do  : 
But  such  ills  they  never  knew. 

Lni, 

"  What  ai-t  thou.  Freedom  ?     Oh !  could  slaves 
Answer  from  their  living  graves 
This  demand,  tyrants  would  flee 
Like  a  dream's  dim  imagery, 

LI  v. 
"  Thou  art  not,  as  impostors  say, 
A  shadov/  soon  to  pass  away, 
A  superstition,  and  a  name 
Echoing  from  the  cave  of  Fame. 


"  For  the  laborer  thou  art  bread 
And  a  comely  table  spread. 
From  his  daily  labor  come. 
In  a  neat  and  happy  home. 

LVI. 

"  Thou  art  clothes  and  fire  and  food 
For  the  trampled  multitude  : 
No  —  in  countries  that  are  free 
Such  starvation  can  not  be. 
As  in  England  now  we  see. 


"  To  the  rich  thou  art  a  check  ; 
When  his  foot  is  on  the  neck 
Of  his  victim,  thou  dost  make 
That  he  treads  upon  a  snake. 

L  VIII. 

"  Thou  art  Justice  —  ne'er  for  gold 
May  thy  righteous  laws  be  sold, 
As  laws  are  in  England  :  —  thou 
Shieldest  alike  the  high  and  low. 


"  Thou  art  Wisdom  —  frefemen  never 
Dream  that  God  will  doom  for  ever 
All  who  think  those  things  untrue. 
Of  which  priests  make  such  ado. 


502         THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY. 
LX. 

"  Thou  art  Peace  —  never  by  thee 
"Would  blood  and  treasure  wasted  be, 
As  tyrants  wasted  them  when  all 
Leagued  to  quench  thy  flame  in  Gaul. 

LXI. 

"  What  if  English  toil  and  blood 
Was  poured  forth,  even  as  a  flood  ? 
It  availed,  oh  Liberty ! 
To  dim  —  but  not  extinguish  thee, 

LXII. 

"  Thou  art  Love  —  the  rich  have  kist 
Thy  feet ;  and  like  him  following  Christ, 
Given  their  substance  to  the  free, 
And  through  the  rough  world  follov/ed  thee. 

LXIII. 

"Oh  turn  their  wealth  to  arms,  and  make 
War  for  thy  beloved  sake. 
On  wealth  and  war  and  fraud  ;  whence  they 
Drew  the  power  which  is  their  prey. 


"  Science  and  poetry  and  thought 
Are  thy  lamps  ;  they  make  the  lot 
Of  the  dwellers  in  a  cot 
Such,  they  curse  their  maker  not. 


"  Spirit,  Patience,  Gentleness, 

All  that  can  adorn  and  bless, 

Art  thou  :  let  deeds,  not  words,  express 

Thine  exceeding  loveliness. 


"  Let  a  great  assembly  be 

Of  the  fearless  and  the  free. 

On  some  spot  of  English  ground, 

Where  the  plains  stretch  wide  around. 


"  Let  the  blue  sky  overhead, 
The  green  earth,  on  which  ye  tread, 
All  that  must  eternal  be. 
Witness  the  solemnity. 

LXVIII. 

"  From  the  corners  uttermost 
Of  the  bounds  of  English  coast  ; 
From  every  hut,  village  and  town. 
Where  those  who  live  and  suffer,  moan 
For  others'  misery,  or  their  own : 


THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY.         503 
LX  I  X. 

"  From  the  workhouse  and  the  prison, 
Where  pale  as  corpses  newly  risen, 
"Women,  children,  young  and  old, 
Groan  for  pain,  and  weep  for  cold  ; 


"  From  the  haunts  of  daily  life. 
Where  is  waged  the  daily  strife 
With  common  wants  and  common  cares. 
Which  sow  the  human  heart  with  tares. 

LXXI. 

"  Lastly,  from  the  palaces, 
Where  the  murmur  of  distress 
Echoes,  like  the  distant  sound 
Of  a  wind,  alive  around  ; 

LXXI  I. 

"  Those  prison-halls  of  wealth  and  fashion, 
W^here  some  few  feel  such  compassion 
For  those  who  groan  and  toil  and  wail. 
As  must  make  their  brethren  pale  ; 

LXX  III. 

"  Ye  who  suffer  woes  untold, 
Or  to  feel,  or  to  behold 
Your  lost  country  bought  and  sold 
With  a  price  of  blood  and  gold. 


"Let  a  vast  assembly  be. 

And  with  great  solemnity 

Declare  with  ne'er  said  words,  that  ye 

Are,  as  God  has  made  ye,  free  ! 

LXX  V, 

"  Be  your  strong  and  simple  words 
Keen  to  wound  as  sharpened  swords. 
And  wide  as  targes  let  them  be, 
With  their  shade  to  cover  ye. 

L  XX  VI. 

"  Let  the  tyrants  pour  around 
With  a  quick  and  startling  sound, 
Like  the  loosening  of  a  sea. 
Troops  of  armed  emblazonry  ! 


LXXVll. 

"  Let  the  charged  artillery  drive. 
Till  the  dead  air  seems  alive 
With  the  clash  of  clanging  wheels, 
And  the  tramp  of  horses'  heels  1 


504        THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY. 
LXXVIII. 

"  Let  the  fix^d  bayonet 
Gleam  with  sharp  desire  to  wet 
Its  bright  point  in  English  blood, 
Looking  keen  as  one  for  food. 

LXXIX. 

"  Let  the  horseman's  cimiters 
Wheel  and  flash,  like  sphereless  stars, 
Thirsting  to  eclipse  their  burning 
In  a  sea  of  death  and  mourning  ! 

LXXX. 

"  Stand  ye  calm  and  resolute, 

Like  a  forest  close  and  mute, 

With  folded  arms,  and  looks  which  are 

Weapons  of  an  unvanquished  war. 

LXXXI. 

"  And  let  Panic,  who  outspeeds 
The  career  of  armed  steeds. 
Pass,  a  disregarded  shade. 
Through  your  phalanx  undismayed. 


"  Let  the  laws  of  your  own  land, 
Good  or  ill,  between  ye  stand, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot. 
Arbiters  of  the  dispute. 


"  The  old  laws  of  England  — they 
Whose  reverend  heads  with  age  are  gray, 
Children  of  a  wiser  day  ; 
And  whose  solemn  voice  must  be 
Thine  own  echo  —  Liberty  ! 

L  X  X  X  I  V. 

"On  those  who  first  should  violate 
Such  sacred  heralds  in  their  state. 
Rest  the  blood  that  must  ensue : 
And  it  will  not  rest  on  you. 

I.  X  X  X  V. 

"  And  if  then  the  tyrants  dare. 
Let  them  ride  among  you  there  : 
Slash  and  stab  and  maim  and  hew : 
What  they  like,  that  let  them  do. 

LXXXVI. 

"  With  folded  arms  and  steady  eyes, 
And  little  fear,  and  less  surprise, 
Look  upon  them  as  they  slay. 
Till  their  rage  has  died  away : 


SONG    TO    THE    MEN    OF    ENGLAND.  505 

LXXX  V  II. 

"  Then  they  will  return  with  shame 
To  the  place  from  which  they  came, 
And  the  blood  thus  shed  will  speak 
In  hot  blushes  on  their  cheek  : 

LXXXVIII. 

"  Every  woman  in  the  land 
Will  point  at  them  as  they  stand  — 
They  will  hardly  dare  to  greet 
Their  acquaintance  in  the  street : 

LX  XXIX. 

"  And  the  bold,  true  vvarriors.. 
Who  have  hugged  danger  in  the  wars, 
Will  turn  to  those  who  would  be  free, 
Ashamed  of  such  base  company  : 


"  And  that  slaughter  to  the  nation 
Shall  steam  up  like  inspiration, 
Eloquent,  oracular, 
A  volcano  heard  afar  : 


•'  And  these  words  shall  then  become 
Like  Oppression's  thundered  doom, 
Ringing  through  each  heart  and  brain. 
Heard  again  —  again  —  again  ! 


"  Rise  like  lions  after  slumber 
In  unvanquishable  number ! 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth,  like  dew 
Which  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you  : 
Ye  are  many  —  they  are  few  !" 


SONG 

TO    THE   MEN   OF   ENGLAND. 

Men  of  England  !  wherefore  plow 
For  the  lords  wno  lay  ye  low  ? 
Wherefore  weave  with  toil  and  care 
The  rich  robes  your  tyrants  wear  ? 

Wherefore  feed  and  clothe  and  save, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Those  ungrateful  drones  who  would 
Drain  your  sweat —  nay,  drink  your  blood  ! 


506  LINES. 

Wherefore,  Bees  of  England,  forge 
Many  a  weapon,  chain  and  scourge, 
That  these  stiugless  drones  may  spoil 
The  forced  produce  of  your  toil  1 

Have  ye  leisure,  comfort,  calm. 
Shelter,  food,  love's  gentle  balm  ? 
Or  what  is  it  ye  buy  so  dear 
With  your  pains  and  with  your  fear  ? 

The  seed  ye  sow,  another  reaps  ; 
The  wealth  ye  find,  another  keeps  ; 
The  robes  ye  weave,  another  wears  j 
The  arms  ye  forge,  another  bears. 

Sow  seed  —  but  let  no  tyrant  reap  ; 
Find  wealth  —  let  no  impostor  heap  ; 
Weave  robes  —  let  not  the  idle  wear  ; 
Forge  arms  —  in  your  defense  to  bear. 

Shrink  to  your  cellars,  holes  and  cells  f 
In  halls  ye  deck,  another  dwells. 
Why  shake  the  chains  ye  wrought  ?  Ye  » 
The  steel  ye  tempered  glance  on  ye  1 

With  plow  and  spade,  and  hoe  and  loom, 
Trace  your  grave,  and  build  your  tomb. 
And  weave  your  winding-sheet,  till  fair 
England  be  your  sepulchre  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   DURING  THE   CASTLEREAGH  ADMINISTRATION. 

Corpses  are  cold  in  the  tomb. 
Stones  on  the  pavement  are  dumb. 
Abortions  are  dead  in  the  womb. 
And  their  mothers  look  pale  —  like  the  white  shore 
Of  Albion,  free  no  more. 

Her  sons  are  as  stones  in  the  way  — 
They  are  ma.sses  of  senseless  clay — 
They  are  trodden  and  move  not  away  — 
The  abortion,  with  which  she  travaileth, 
Is  Liberty — smitten  to  death. 

Then  trample  and  dance,  thou  oppressor, 
For  thy  victim  is  no  redresser. 
Thou  art  sole  lord  and  possessor 
Of  her  corpses  and  clods  and  abortions  ^  they  pave 
Thy  path  to  the  grave  ! 


AN    ODE.  507 

Hearest  thou  the  festival  din 
Of  death  and  desti'uction  and  sin 
And  wealth,  crying  '•  Havoc!"  within? — 
'Tisthe  Bacchanal  triumph,  which  makes  truth  dumb, 
Thine  Epithalamium. 

Ay,  marry  thy  ghastly  wife  ! 
Let  fear  and  disquiet  and  strife 
Spread  thy  couch  in  the  chamber  of  life  : 
Marry  Ruin,  thou  tyrant !  and  God  be  thy  guide 
To  the  bed  of  thy  bride  ! 


SIMILES. 

As  from  an  ancestral  oak 

Two  empty  ravens  sound  their  clarion, 
Yell  by  yell,  and  croak  by  croak, 
When  they  scent  the  noonday  smoke 

Of  fresh  human  carrion  : 

As  two  gibbering  night-birds  flit 
From  their  bowers  of  deadly  hue, 

Through  the  night  to  frighten  it, 

When  the  morn  is  in  a  fit, 

And  the  stars  are  none,  or  few : 

As  a  shark  and  dog-fish  wait 

Under  an  Atlantic  isle. 
For  the  negro-ship,  whose  freight 
Is  the  theme  of  their  debate. 

Wrinkling  their  red  gills  the  while  — 

Are  ye,  two  vultures  sick  for  battle, 

Two  scorpions  under  one  wet  stone, 
Two  bloodless  wolves  whose  dry  throats  rattle, 
Two  crows  perched  on  the  murrained  cattle, 
Two  vipers  tangled  into  one. 


AN  ODE, 

TO   THE    ASSEKTOllS   OF    LIBERTY. 

Arise,  arise,  arise  ! 
There  is  blood  on  the  earth  that  denies  ye  bread  ; 

Be  your  wounds  like  eyes 
To  weep  for  the  dead,  the  dead,  the  dead. 
What  other  grief  were  it  just  to  pay  ? 
Your  sons,  your  wives,  your  brethren,  were  they; 
Who  said  they  were  slain  on  the  battle  day  ? 


508  ENGLAND    IN    1819. 

Awaken,  awaken,  awaken ! 
The  slave  and  the  tyrant  are  twin-born  foes ; 

Be  the  cold  chains  shaken 
To  the  dust,  where  your  kindred  repose,  repose ; 
Their  bones  in  the  grave  will  start  and  move. 
When  they  hear  the  voices  of  those  they  love, 
Most  loud  in  the  holy  combat  above. 

"Wave,  w^ave  high  the  banner  ! 
When  Freedom  is  riding  to  conquest  by  : 
Though  the  slaves  that  fan  her 
Be  Famine  and  Toil,  giving  sigh  for  sigh. 
And  ye  who  attend  her  imperial  car, 
Lift  not  your  hands  in  the  banded  war, 
But  in  her  defense  whose  children  ye  are. 

Glory,  glory,  glory  ! 
To  those  who  have  greatly  suffered  and  done  ! 

Never  name  in  story 
Was  greater  than  that  which  ye  shall  have  won. 
Conquerors  have  conquered  their  foes  alone, 
Whose  revenge,  pride  and  power  they  have  overthrown  ; 
Ride  ye,  more  victorious,  over  your  own  ! 

Bind,  bind  every  brow 
With  crownals  of  violet,  ivy  and  pine  : 

Hide  the  blood-stains  now 
With  hues  which  sweet  Nature  has  made  divine  : 
Green  strength,  azure  hope,  and  eternity : 
But  let  not  the  pansy  among  them  be  ; 
Ye  were  injured,  and  that  means  memory. 


ENGLAND  IN  1819. 

An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised  and  dying  king  — 
Princes,  the  dregs  of  their  dull  race,  who  flow 
Through  public  scorn  —  mud  from  a  muddy  spring - 
Rulers,  who  neither  see  nor  feel  nor  know. 
But  leech-like  to  their  fainting  country  cling. 
Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  without  a  blow. 
A  people  starved  and  stabbed  in  the  untilled  field  - 
An  army,  which  liberticide  and  prey 
Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who  wield  ; 
Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt  and  slay ; 
Religion  Christless,  Godless  —  a  book  sealed  ; 
A  senate  —  Time's  worst  statute  unrepealed  — 
Are  graves,  from  which  a  glorious  phantom  may 
Burst,  to  illumine  our  tempestuous  day  ! 


ON  THE  MEDUSA  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI.      509 


TO  WILLIAM  SHELLEY. 

(With  what  truth  I  may  say  — 

Roma  !  Roma !  Roma  1 
Non  e  piu  come  eta  prima  1 ) 

My  lost  William,  thou  in  whom 

Some  bright  spirit  lived,  and  did 
That  decaying  robe  consume 
Which  its  lustre  faintly  hid, 
Here  its  ashes  find  a  tomb, 

But  beneath  this  pyramid 
Thou  art  not  —  if  a  thing  divine 
Like  thee  can  die,  thy  funeral  shrine 
Is  thy  mother's  grief  and  mine. 

Where  art  thou,  my  gentle  child  ? 

Let  me  think  thy  spirit  feeds. 
Within  its  life  intense  and  mild. 

The  love  of  living  leaves  and  w^eeds, 
Among  these  tombs  and  ruins  wild  ; 

Let  me  think  that  through  low  seeds 
Of  the  sweet  flowers  and  sunny  grass, 
Into  their  hues  and  scents  may  pass, 
A  portion 

June,  1819. 


ON  THE  MEDUSA  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

IN  THE  FLORENTINE  GALLERY. 

It  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky, 
Upon  the  cloudy  mountain  peak  supine ; 

Below,  far  lands  are  seen  tremblingly  ; 
Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divme. 

Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seems  to  lie 

Loveliness  like  a  shadow,  from  which  shrine, 

Piery  and  lurid,  struggling  underneath, 

The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death. 

Yet  it  is  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  spirit  into  stone ; 

Whereon  the  lineaments  of  that  dead  face 
Are  graven,  till  the  characters  be  grown 

Into  itself,  and  thought  no  more  can  trace : 
'Tis  the  melodious  hue  of  beauty  thrown 

Athwart  the  darknes.^  and  the  glare  of  pain, 

Which  humanize  and  harmonize  the  strain. 


510  ODE    TO    HEAVEN. 

And  from  its  head  as  from  one  body  grow, 
As  [  ]  grass  out  of  a  watery  rock, 

Hairs  which  are  vipers,  and  they  curl  and  flow, 
And  their  long  tangles  in  each  other  lock, 

And  with  unending  involutions  show 

Their  mailed  radiance  as  it  were  to  mock 

The  torture  and  the  death  within,  and  saw 

The  solid  air  with  many  a  ragged  jaw. 

And  from   a  stone  beside,  a  poisonous  eft 
Peeps  idly  into  these  Gorgonian  eyes  ; 

While  in  the  air  a  ghastly  bat,  bereft 

Of  sense,  has  flitted  w^ith  a  mad  surprise 

Out  of  the  cave  this  hideous  light  had  clefl;, 
And  he  comes  hastening  like  a  moth  that  hies 

After  a  taper  ;  and  the  midnight  sky 

Flares,  a  light  more  dread  than  obscurity. 

'Tis  the  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror ; 

For  from  the  serpents  gleams  a  brazen  glare 
Kindled  by  that  inextricable  error, 

Which  makes  a  thi-illing  vapor  of  the  air 
Become  a  [  ]  and  ever-shifting  mirror 

Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  terror  there  — 
A  w^oman's  countenance,  with  serpent  locks. 
Gazing  in  death  on  heaven  from  those  wet  rocks. 

Florence,  1819. 


ODE  TO  HEAVEN. 
Chorus  of  Spirits. 

first  spirit. 

Palace-roof  of  cloudless  nights ! 
Paradise  of  golden  lights  ! 

Deep,  immeasurable,  vast, 
Which  art  now,  and  which  wert  then 

Of  the  present  and  the  past. 
Of  the  eternal  where  and  when. 

Presence-chamber,  temple,  home, 

Ever-canopying  dome. 

Of  acts  and  ages  yet  to  come  ! 

Glorious  shapes  have  life  in  thee. 
Earth,  and  all  earth's  company  ; 

Living  globes  which  ever  throng 
Thy  deep  chasms  and  wildernesses ; 

And  green  worlds  that  glide  along: 
And  swift  stars  with  flashing  tresses ; 


AN     EXHORTATION.  511 

And  icy  moons  most  cold  and  bright, 
And  mighty  suns  beyond  the  night, 
Atoms  of  intensest  light. 

Even  thy  name  is  as  a  god, 
Heaven  !  for  thou  art  the  abode 

Of  that  pow^er  which  is  the  glass 
Wherein  man  his  nature  sees. 

Generations  as  they  pass 
Worship  thee  with  bended  knees. 

Their  unremaining  gods  and  they 

Like  a  river  roll  away  : 

Thou  remaiuest  such  alway. 

SECOND   SPIRIT. 

Thou  art  but  the  mind's  first  chamber, 
Round  which  its  young  fancies  clamber, 

Like  weak  insects  in  a  cave, 
Lighted  up  by  stalactites  ; 

But  the  portal  of  the  grave, 
Where  a  world  of  new  delights 

Will  make  thy  best  glories  seem 

But  a  dim  and  noonday  gleam 

Prom  the  shadow  of  a  dream ! 

THIRD   SPIRIT- 

Peace !  the  abyss  is  wreathed  with  scorn 
At  your  presumption,  atom-born  ! 

What  is  heaven  ?  and  what  are  ye 
Who  its  brief  expanse  inherit  ? 

What  are  suns  and  spheres  which  flee 
With  the  instinct  of  that  spirit 

Of  which  ye  are  but  a  part  ? 

Drops  which  Nature's  mighty  heart 

Drives  through  thinnest  veins.     Depart ! 

What  is  heaven  ?  a  globe  of  dew, 
Filling  in  the  morning  new 

Some  eyed  flower,  whose  yoimg  leaves  waken 
On  an  unimagined  world: 

Constellated  suns  unshaken, 
Orbits  measureless,  are  furled 

In  that  frail  and  fading  sphere, 

With  ten  millions  gathered  there, 

To  tremble,  gleam,  and  disappear. 


AN  EXHORTATION. 

Chameleons  feed  on  light  and  air : 
Poet's  food  is  love  and  fame  : 

If  in  this  wide  world  of  care 
Poets  could  but  find  the  same 


512  ODE    TO    THE    WEST    WIND. 

With  as  little  toil  as  they, 

Would  they  ever  change  their  hue 

As  the  light  chameleons  do, 
Suiting  it  to  every  ray 
Twenty  times  a  day  ? 

Poets  are  on  this  cold  earth, 

As  chameleons  might  be, 
Hidden  from  their  early  birth 

In  a  cave  beneath  the  sea  : 
Where  light  is,  chameleons  change  ! 

Where  love  is  not.  poets  do  : 

Fame  is  love  disguised  :  if  few 
Find  either,  never  think  it  strange 
That  poets  range. 

Yet  dare  not  stain  with  wealth  or  power 

A  poet's  free  and  heavenly  mind  : 
If  bright  chameleons  should  devour 

Any  food  but  beams  and  wind, 
They  would  grow  as  earthly  soon 

As  their  brother  lizards  are. 

Children  of  a  sunnier  star. 
Spirits  from  beyond  the  moon. 
Oh,  refuse  the  boon  ! 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND.* 


O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being. 
Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing. 

Yellow  and  black  and  pale  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  !  O  thou. 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

*  This  poem  was  conceived  and  chiefly  written  in  a  wood  that  skirts  the  Amo,  near 
Florence,  and  on  a  day  when  that  tempestuous  wind,  whose  temperature  is  at  once  mild 
and  animating,  was  collecting  the  vapors  which  pour  down  the  autumnal  rains.  They 
began,  as  I  foresaw,  at  sunset,  with  a  violent  tempest  of  hai)  and  rain,  attended  by  that 
magnificent  thunder  and  lightning  peculiar  to  the  Cisalpine  regions. 

The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the  conclusion  of  the  third  stanza  is  well  known  to  natu- 
ralists. The  vegetation  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  of  rivers,  and  of  lakes,  sympatliizes 
with  that  of  the  land  in  the  change  of  seasons,  and  is  consequently  influenced  by  the 
winds  which  announce  it. 


ODE    TO    THE    WEST    WIND.  613 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  spirit,  which  are  moving  everywhere : 
Destroyer  and  preserver  —  hear,  oh  hear  ! 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  hight 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain  and  fire  and  hail  will  burst :  oh  hear  : 


Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay. 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice-isle  in  Baioe's  bay. 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
duivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  wliile  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  oh  hear  ! 

IV. 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneatli  thy  power,  and  share 
33 


514  ODE    TO    THE    WEST    WIND. 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision,  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !   I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless  and  swift  and  proud  ! 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce. 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  w^ithered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new^  birth  ; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse. 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O  Wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT- 
PART  I. 

A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  Night, 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere  ; 

And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 

Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field  or  the  wilderness. 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want, 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snow-drop,  and  then  the  violet. 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet. 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tafl, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess  ; 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale. 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green  ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple  and  white  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense  ; 


516  THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT. 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unvailed  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare : 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky  ; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows ; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  pranked  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously. 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss. 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze. 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels. 
And  fiowrets  which  drooping  as  day  drooped  too. 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple  and  blue. 
To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 

When  heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them. 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem. 
Shone  smiling  to  heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  hght  of  the  gentle  sun ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor  shed. 
Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear. 
Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root. 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever. 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver- 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT.  517 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower  ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower  ; 
It  loves,  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full, 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wingg 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings  ; 
The  beams  w^hich  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  w^hose  hues  they  bear  afar  ; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Laden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high. 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres. 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears  ; 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide, 
Which  like  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide, 
In  which  every  sound  and  odor  and  beam 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream ; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
While  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 
And  the  earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love, 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep. 
And  the  day's  vail  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep, 

And  the  beasts  and  the  birds  and  the  insects  wei'e  drowned 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound ; 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness  : 

(Only  over  head  the  sweet  nightingale 

Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest ; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight. 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite. 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  Night. 


518  THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT. 


PART  II. 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden  ;  a  ruling  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  waken  or  dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind 
W^hich,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  mom  to  even  : 

And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven. 

Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  Night  w^alks  forth. 

Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  earth  ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race. 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  w^hile  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes. 
That  her  dreams  v/ere  less  slumber  than  paradise. 

As  if  some  bright  spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 

Had  deserted  heaven  v^'hile  the  stars  were  awake. 

As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  w^ere, 

Though  the  vail  of  daylight  concealed  him  from  her. 

Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  prest ; 
You  might  hear,  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast. 
That  the  coming  and  the  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod. 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep. 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green  deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
E-ejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet : 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
Prom  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam  ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  reiin  of  the  thunder-showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier  bands  ; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants,  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT.  519 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof. 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full. 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike  ephemeris. 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft  moths  that  kiss 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  tlowers,  and  harm  not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 
Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come. 
She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar-bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  ministering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown  —  she  died  ! 


PART  III. 

Theee  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair. 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awakened,  were. 
Or  the  waves  of  Baiae,  eie  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant. 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners  deep  and  low  ; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath. 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And  the  smell,  cold,  oppressive  and  dank. 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin-plank  ; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass ; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul, 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul ; 
Which  at  Hr.st  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  w^ho  never  weep. 


620  THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT. 

Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode, 
Though  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and  bright, 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The  rose-leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow. 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping  and  white  and  -wan, 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  day  by  day. 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow  and  gray  and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead. 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  past ; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds, 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem. 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set ; 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there. 
As  the  M^inds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks  ; 
And  the  leafless  network  of  parasite  bowers 
Massed  into  ruin,  and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow, 

All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow. 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with  many  a  speck 

Like  the  v/ater-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back. 

And  thistles  and  nettles  and  darnels  rank, 
And  the  dock  and  henbane  and  hemlock  dank, 
Stretched  out  its  long  and  hollow^  shank. 
And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  stank. 

And  plants,  at  whose  name  the  verse  feels  loath, 
Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  undergrow^th. 
Prickly  and  pulpous  and  blistering  and  blue. 
Livid  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And  agarics  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and  mould. 
Started  like  mist  from  the  wet  ground  cold  : 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated  ! 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT.  621 

Spawn,  weeds  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum. 

Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb, 

And  at  its  outlet,  flags  huge  as  stakes 

Dammed  it  up  with  roots  knotted  like  water-snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still. 
The  vapors  arose  which  have  strength  to  kill : 
At  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  they  were  felt. 
At  night  they  were  darkness  no  star  could  melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen  ;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
By  a  venomous  blight  was  burned  and  bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant,  like  one  forbid, 
"Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves,  which  together  grew, 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon 
By  the  heavy  ax  of  the  blast  were  hewn  ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  Winter  came  :  the  wind  was  his  whip  : 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip  : 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills. 
And  they  clanked  at  his  girdle  like  manacles  : 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a  sound 
The  earth  and  the  air  and  the  water  bound  ; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven  in  his  chariot-throne 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  arctic  zone. 

Then  the  weeds  which  were  forms  of  living  death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want : 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air. 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain. 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again, 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew  ; 

And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  w^olf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out. 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden,  and  heavy  and  stiff, 
And  snapped  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 


522  A    VISION    OF    THE    SEA. 

When  Winter  had  gone  and  Spring  came  back, 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck  ; 

But  the  mandrakes  and  toadstools  and  docks  and  darnels 

Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruined  charnels. 


CONCLUSION. 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay. 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  can  not  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess  ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream. 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odors  there, 
In  truth  have  never  pas.sed  away  : 
'Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed  ;  not  they. 

For  love  and  beauty  and  delight 

There  is  no  death  nor  change  :  their  might 

Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 

No  light —  being  themselves  obscure. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  SEA. 

'Tis  the  terror  of  tempest !     The  rags  of  the  sail 
Are  flickering  in  ribands  within  the  fierce  gale : 
From  the  stark  night  of  vapors  the  dim  rain  is  driven. 
And  when  lightning  is  loosed  like  a  deluge  from  heaven, 
She  sees  the  black  trunks  of  the  water-spouts  spin. 
And  bend,  as  if  heaven  was  ruining  in. 
Which  they  seemed  to  sustain  with  their  ten-ible  mass 
As  if  ocean  had  sunk  from  beneath  them :  they  pass 


A   VISION   OF    THE    SEA.  523 

To  their  graves  in  the  deep  with  an  earthquake  of  sound, 

And  the  waves  and  the  thunders,  made  silent  around, 

Leave  the  wind  to  its  echo.     The  vessel,  now  tossed 

Through  the  low  trailing  rack  of  the  tempest,  is  lost 

In  the  skirts  of  the  thunder-cloud  :  now  down  the  sweep 

Of  the  wind-cloven  wave  to  the  chasm  of  the  deep 

It  sinks,  and  the  walls  of  the  watery  vale 

Whose  depths  of  dread  calm  are  unmoved  by  the  gale, 

Dim  mirrors  of  ruin  hang  gleaming  about ; 

While  the  surf,  like  a  chaos  of  stars,  like  a  rout 

Of  death-flames,  like  whirlpools  of  fire-flowing  iron. 

With  splendor  and  terror  the  black  ship  environ  ; 

Or  like  sulphur-flakes  hurled  from  a  mine  of  pale  fire. 

In  fountains  spout  o'er  it.     In  many  a  spire 

The  pyramid-billows,  with  white  points  of  brine. 

In  the  cope  of  the  lightning  inconstantly  shine, 

As  piercing  the  sky  from  the  floor  of  the  sea. 

The  great  ship  seems  splitting  !  it  cracks  as  a  tree, 

"While  an  earthquake  is  splintering  its  root,  ere  the  blast 

Of  the  whirlwind  that  stripped  it  of  branches  has  past. 

The  intense  thunder-balls  which  are  raining  fi'om  heaven 

Have  shattered  its  mast,  and  it  stands  black  and  riven. 

The  chinks  suck  destruction.     The  heavy  dead  hulk 

On  the  living  sea  rolls  an  inanimate  bulk, 

Like  a  corpse  on  the  clay  which  is  hungering  to  fold 

Its  corruption  around  it.     Meanwhile,  from  the  hold. 

One  deck  is  burst  up  from  the  waters  below, 

And  it  splits  like  the  ice  when  the  thaw-breezes  blow 

O'er  the  lakes  of  the  desert !     Who  sit  on  the  other  ? 

Is  that  all  the  crew  that  lie  burying  each  other, 

Like  the  dead  in  a  breach,  round  the  foremast  ?     Are  those 

Twin  tigers  who  burst,  when  the  w^aters  arose, 

In  the  agony  of  terror,  their  chains  in  the  hold 

(What  now  makes  them  tame,  is  what  then  made  them  bold), 

Who  crouch,  side  by  side,  and  have  driven,  like  a  crank. 

The  deep  grip  of  their  claws  through  the  vibrating  plank  ? 

Are  these  all  ? 

Nine  weeks  the  tall  vessel  had  lain 
On  the  windless  expanse  of  the  watery  plain. 
Where  the  death-darting  sun  cast  no  shadow  at  noon. 
And  there  seemed  to  be  fire  in  the  beams  of  the  moon. 
Till  a  lead-colored  fog  gathered  up  from  the  deep. 
Whose  breath  was  quick  pestilence  ;  then,  the  cold  sleep 
Crept,  like  blight  through  the  ears  of  a  thick  field  of  com, 
O'er  the  populous  vessel.     And  even  and  mom. 
With  their  hammocks  for  coffins  the  seamen  aghast 
Like  dead  men  the  dead  limbs  of  their  comrades  cast 
Down  the  deep,  which  closed  on  them  above  and  around. 
And  the  sharks  and  the  dog-fish  their  graveclothes  unbound, 
And  were  glutted  like  Jews  with  this  manna  rained  down 
From  God  on  their  wilderness.     One  after  one 


524  A    VISION    OF    THE    SEA. 

The  mariners  died ;  on  the  eve  of  this  day, 

When  the  tempest  was  gathering  in  cloudy  array, 

But  seven  remained.     Six  the  thunder  had  smitten, 

And  they  He  black  as  mummies  on  which  Time  has  written 

His  scorn  of  the  embalmer ;  the  seventh,  from  the  deck 

An  oak  splinter  pierced  tlirough  his  breast  and  his  back. 

And  hung  out  to  the  tempest,  a  wreck  on  the  wreck. 

No  more  ?     At  the  helm  sits  a  woman  more  fair 

Than  heaven,  wlien,  unbinding  its  star-braided  hair. 

It  sinks  with  the  sun  on  the  earth  and  the  sea. 

She  clasps  a  bright  child  on  her  upgathered  knee, 

It  laughs  at  the  lightning,  it  mocks  the  mixed  thunder 

Of  the  air  and  the  sea,  with  desire  and  with  wonder 

It  is  beckoning  the  tigers  to  rise  and  come  near, 

It  would  play  with  those  eyes  where  the  radiance  of  fear 

Is  outshining  the  meteors  ;  its  bosom  beats  high. 

The  heart-fire  of  pleasure  has  kindled  its  eye  ; 

"While  its  mother's  is  lustreless.     "  Smile  not,  my  child. 

But  sleep  deeply  and  sweetly,  and  so  be  beguiled 

Of  the  pang  that  awaits  us,  whatever  that  be. 

So  dreadful  since  thou  must  divide  it  with  me  ! 

Dream,  sleep  !     This  pale  bosom,  thy  cradle  and  bed, 

Will  it  rock  thee  not,  infant  ?     'Tis  beating  with  dread ! 

Alas  ?  vt^hat  is  life,  what  is  death,  what  are  we, 

That  when  the  ship  sinks  we  no  longer  may  be  ? 

What !  to  see  thee  no  more,  and  to  feel  thee  no  more  ? 

To  be  after  life  what  we  have  been  before  ? 

Not  to  touch  those  sweet  hands  ?     Not  to  look  on  those  eyes. 

Those  lips,  and  that  hair,  all  that  smiling  disguise 

Thou  yet  wearest,  sweet  spirit,  which  I,  day  by  day. 

Have  so  long  called  my  child,  but  which  now  fades  away 

Like  a  rainbow,  and  1  the  fallen  shower?" 

Lo !  the  ship 
Is  settling,  it  topples,  the  leeward  ports  dip  ; 
The  tigers  leap  up  w^hen  they  feel  the  slow^  brine 
Crawling  inch  by  inch  on  them ;  hair,  ears,  limbs,  and  eyne, 
Stand  rigid  with  horror ;  a  loud,  long,  hoarse  cry 
Burst  at  once  from  their  vitals  tremendously. 
And  'tis  borne  down  the  mountainous  vale  of  the  wave, 
Rebounding,  like  thunder,  from  crag  to  cave, 
Mixed  with  the  clash  of  the  lashing  rain, 
Hui-ried  on  by  the  might  of  the  humcane  : 
The  hun-icane  came  from  the  west,  and  past  on 
By  the  path  of  the  gate  of  the  eastern  sun. 
Transversely  dividing  the  stream  of  the  storm ; 
As  an  arrowy  serpent,  pursuing  the  form 
Of  an  elephant,  bursts  through  the  brakes  of  the  waste. 
Black  as  a  cormorant  the  screaming  blast. 
Between  ocean  and  heaven,  like  an  ocean,  past. 
Till  it  came  to  the  clouds  on  the  verge  of  the  world 
Which,  based  on  the  sea  and  to  heaven  upcurled. 


A    VISION    OF    THE    SEA.  525 

Like  columns  and  walls  did  surround  and  sustain 

The  dome  of  the  tempest :  it  rent  them  in  twain, 

As  a  flood  rends  its  barriers  of  mountainous  crag: 

And  the  dense  clouds  in  many  a  ruin  and  rag, 

Like  the  stones  of  a  temple  ere  earthquake  has  passed, 

Like  the  dust  of  its  fall,  on  the  whirlwind  are  cast ; 

They  are  scattered  like  foam  on  the  torrent ;  and  where 

The  wind  has  burst  out  through  the  chasm,  from  the  air 

Of  clear  morning,  the  beams  of  the  sunrise  flow  in, 

Unimpeded,  keen,  golden,  and  crystalline, 

Banded  armies  of  light  and  of  air  ;  at  one  gate 

They  encounter,  but  interpenetrate. 

And  that  breach  in  the  tempest  is  widening  away, 

And  the  caverns  of  cloud  are  torn  up  by  the  day, 

And  the  fierce  winds  are  sinking  w^ith  weary  wings, 

Lulled  by  the  motion  and  murmurings, 

And  the  long  glassy  heave  of  the  rocking  sea, 

And  overhead  glorious,  but  dreadful  to  see. 

The  wrecks  of  the  tempest,  like  vapors  of  gold. 

Are  consuming  in  sunrise.     The  heaped  waves  behold 

The  deep  calm  of  blue  heaven  dilating  above, 

And,  like  passions  made  still  by  the  presence  of  Love, 

Beneath  the  clear  surface  reflecting  it  slide 

Tremulous  with  soft  influence  ;  extending  its  tide 

From  the  Andes  to  Atlas,  round  mountain  and  isle. 

Round  sea-birds  and  wrecks,  paved  with  heaven's  azure  smile, 

The  wide  world  of  waters  is  vibrating. 

Where 
Is  the  ship  ?     On  the  verge  of  the  wave  where  it  lay, 
One  tiger  is  mingled  in  ghastly  affray 
With  a  sea  snake.     The  foam  and  the  smoke  of  the  battle 
Stain  the  clear  air  with  sunbows ;  the  jar,  and  the  rattle 
Of  solid  bones  crushed  by  the  infinite  stress 
Of  the  snake's  adamantine  voluminousness  ; 
And  the  hum  of  the  hot  blood  that  spouts  and  rains 
Where  the  gripe  of  the  tiger  has  wounded  the  veins. 
Swollen  with  rage,  strength,  and  effort ;  the  whirl  and  the  splash 
As  of  some  hideous  engine  -whose  brazen  teeth  smash 
The  thin  winds  and  soil  waves  into  thunder !  the  screams 
And  hissings  crawl  fast  o'er  the  smooth  ocean-streams. 
Each  sound  like  a  centipede.     Near  this  commotion, 
A  blue  shark  is  hanging  within  the  blue  ocean, 
The  fin-winged  tomb  of  the  victor.     The  other 
Is  winning  his  way  from  the  fate  of  his  brother. 
To  his  own  with  the  speed  of  despair.     Lo  !  a  boat 
Advances  ;  twelve  rowers  with  the  impulse  of  thought 
Urge  on  the  keen  keel,  the  brine  foams.     At  the  stem 
Three  marksmen  stand  levelling.     Hot  bullets  bum 
In  the  breast  of  the  tiger,  which  yet  bears  him  on 
To  his  refuge  and  ruin.     One  fragment  alone, 
'Tis  dwindling  and  sinking,  'tis  now  almost  gone, 
Of  the  wreck  of  the  vessel  peers  out  of  the  sea. 
With  her  left  hand  she  grasps  it  impetuously. 


526  TO  

With  her  right  she  sustains  her  fair  infant.     Death,  Fear, 
Love,  Beauty,  are  mixed  in  the  atmosphere. 
Which  trembles  and  burns  Avith  the  fervor  of  dread 
Around  her  v^^ild  eyes,  her  bright  hand,  and  her  head, 
Like  a  meteor  of  h"ght  o'er  the  waters !  her  child 
Is  yet  smiling,  and  playing,  and  murmuring  :  so  smiled 
The  false  deep  e'er  the  storm.     Like  a  sister  and  brother 
The  child  and  the  ocean  still  smile  on  each  other, 
While 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  fountains  mingle  w^ith  the  river. 

And  the  rivers  M^ith  the  ocean. 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single ; 

All  things  by  a  law^  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle  — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven. 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth. 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  ; 
"What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 
January,  1820. 


TO 


I  FEAR  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden, 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine ; 

My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion, 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine ; 

Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 


THE    CLOUD.  627 

THE  CLOUD. 


I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  w^ings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under : 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 


I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits, 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 
Over  the  rills  and  the  crags  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

While  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 


The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain-crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings, 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  my  airy  nest, 

As  stiU  as  a  brooding  dove. 


528  THE    CLOUD. 


That  orb^d  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  lleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 


I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim. 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 


I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  can  not  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


TO    A    SKYLARK.  529 

TO  A  SKYLARK. 


Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 


Higher  still  and  higher. 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest, 

HI. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening. 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 


The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight : 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 


Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 


All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 


What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow-clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
Ab  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 
.34 


530  TO    A    SKYLARK. 


Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not ; 


Like  a  highborn  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower ; 


Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view 


Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered. 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy -winged  thieves. 

XII. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

XIII. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  w^ine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant. 
Matched  with  thine  v^'ould  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt  — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 


TO    A    SKYLARK.  631 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields  or  waves  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  ovi^n  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 


With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  can  not  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest  —  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  7 


We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught : 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear  — 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear  — 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 


Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


5^  ODE    TO    LIBERTY. 


ODE  TO  LIBERTY. 


"  Yet,  Freedom,  yet  thy  banner  torn  but  flying, 
Streams  like  a  thunder-storm  against  the  v/ind  !" 

Byi  on. 


A  GLORIOUS  people  vibrated  again 

The  lightning  of  the  nations  :  Liberty 
From  heart  to  heart,  from  tower  to  tower,  o'er  Spain, 

Scattering  contagious  fire  into  the  sky. 
Gleamed.     My  soul  spurned  the  chains  of  its  dismay, 
And,  in  the  rapid  plumes  of  song, 
Clothed  itself,  sublime  and  strong  ; 
As  a  young  eagle  soars  the  morning  clouds  among, 
Hovering  in  verse  o'er  its  accustomed  prey  ; 
Till  from  its  station  in  the  heaven  of  fame 
The  spirit's  whirlwind  rapt  it,  and  the  ray 
Of  the  remotest  sphere  of  living  flame 
Which  paves  the  void,  was  from  behind  it  flung. 
As  foam  from  a  ship's  swiftness,  when  there  came 
A  voice  out  of  the  deep  :  I  will  record  the  same. 


The  sun  and  the  serenest  moon  sprang  forth : 

The  burning  stars  of  the  abyss  were  hurled 

Into  the  depths  of  heaven.     The  daedal  earth, 

That  island  in  the  ocean  of  the  world, 
Hung  in  its  cloud  of  all-sustaining  air: 
But  this  divinest  univense 
Was  yet  a  chaos  and  a  curse, 
For  thou  wert  not :  but  power  from  worst  producing  M'orse, 
The  spirit  of  the  beasts  was  kindled  there. 

And  of  the  birds  and  of  the  watery  forms. 
And  there  was  war  among  them  and  despair 
Within  them,  raging  without  truce  or  terms  : 
The  bosom  of  their  violated  nurse 

Groaned,  for  beasts  warred  on  beasts,  and  worms  on  worms, 
And  men  on  men  :  each  heart  was  as  a  hell  of  storms  ! 


Man,  the  imperial  shape,  then  multiplied 

His  generations  under  the  pavilion 
Of  the  sun's  throne  :  palace  and  pyramid, 

Temple  and  prison,  to  many  a  swarming  million, 
Were,  as  to  mountain-wolves  their  ragged  caves. 
This  human  living  multitude 
Was  eavage,  cunning,  blind  and  rude. 
For  thou  wert  not :  but  oer  the  populous  solitude, 
Like  one  fierce  cloud  o'er  a  waste  of  waves, 

Hung  tyranny  ;  beneath,  sate  deified 
The  sister-pest,  congregator  of  slaves  ; 


O.DE    TO    LIBERTY.  533 

Into  the  shadow  of  her  pinions  wide, 
Anarchs  and  priests  who  feed  on  gold  and  blood, 
Till  with  the  stain  their  inmost  souls  are  dyed, 
Drove  the  astonished  herds  of  men  from  every  side. 


The  nodding  promontories  and  blue  isles 

And  cloud-like  mountains  and  dividuous  waves 
Of  Greece  basked  glorious  in  the  open  smiles 

Of  favoring  heaven  :  from  their  enchanted  caves 
Prophetic  echoes  flung  dim  melody 
On  the  unapprehensive  w^ild. 
The  vine,  the  corn,  the  olive  mild, 
Grew^  savage  yet,  to  human  use  unreconciled  ; 
And,  like  unfolded  flowers  beneath  the  sea, 

Like  the  man's  thought  dark  in  the  infant's  brain, 
Like  aught  that  is  w^hich  wraps  what  is  to  be, 
Art's  deathless  dreams  lay  vailed  by  many  a  vein 
Of  Parian  stone  ;  and  yet  a  speechless  child, 
"Verse  murmured,  and  Philosophy  did  strain 
Her  hdless  eyes  for  thee  —  when  o'er  the  ^Egean  main 


Athens  arose  :  a  city  such  as  vision 

Builds  from  the  purple  crags  and  silver  towers 
Of  battlemented  cloud,  as  in  derision 

Of  kingliest  masonry  :  the  ocean-floors 
Pave  it ;  the  evening  sky  pavilions  it ; 
Its  portals  are  inhabited 
By  thunder-zoned  winds,  each  head 
"Within  its  cloudy  wings  with  sun-fire  garlanded, 
A  divine  work  !     Athens  diviner  yet 

Gleamed  with  its  crest  of  columns,  on  the  will 
Of  man,  as  on  a  mount  of  diamond,  set ; 
For  thou  wert,  and  thine  all-creative  skill 
Peopled  with  forms  that  mock  the  eternal  dead 
In  marble  immortality,  that  hill 
"Which  was  thine  earliest  throne  and  latest  oracle. 


"Within  the  surface  of  Time's  fleeting  river 

Its  wrinkled  image  lies,  as  then  it  lay 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  can  not  pass  away  ! 
The  voices  of  thy  bards  and  sages  thunder 
"With  an  earth-awakening  blast 
Through  the  caverns  of  the  past ; 
Religion  vails  her  eyes  ;  Oppression  shrinks  aghast ; 
A  winged  sound  of  joy  and  love  and  wonder, 

"Which  soars  where  Expectation  never  flew, 
Rending  the  vail  of  space  and  time  asunder  ! 


534  ODE    TO    LIBERTY. 

One  ocean  feeds  the  clouds  and  streams  and  dew ; 
One  sun  illumines  heaven  ;  one  spirit  vast 
With  life  and  love  makes  chaos  ever  new, 
As  Athens  doth  the  world  with  thy  delight  renew. 

VII, 

Then  Rome  was,  and  from  thy  deep  bosom  fairest, 

Like  a  wolf-cub  from  a  Cadmsan  Maenad,* 
She  drew  the  milk  of  greatness,  though  thy  dearest 

From  that  Elysian  food  was  yet  un weaned  ; 
And  many  a  deed  of  terrible  uprightness 
By  thy  sweet  love  was  sanctified  : 
And  in  thy  smile,  and  by  thy  side, 
Saintly  Camillus  lived,  and  iirm  Atilius  died. 

But  when  tears  stained  thy  robe  of  vestal  whiteness, 

And  gold  profaned  thy  capitolian  throne, 
Thou  didst  desert,  with  spirit-winged  lightness. 
The  senate  of  the  tyrants.     They  sunk  prone 
Slaves  of  one  tyrant.     Palatinus  sighed 
Faint  echoes  of  Ionian  song  ;  that  tone 
Thou  didst  delay  to  hear,  lamenting  to  disown. 


From  what  Hyrcanian  glen  or  frozen  hill. 
Or  piny  promontory  of  the  arctic  main, 
Or  utmost  islet  inaccessible, 

Didst  thou  lament  the  ruin  of  thy  reign, 
Teaching  the  woods  and  waves  and  desert  rocks, 
And  every  Naiad's  ice-cold  urn, 
To  talk  in  echoes  sad  and  stern 
Of  that  sublimest  lore  which  man  had  dared  unlearn  ? 
For  neither  didst  thou  watch  the  v\'izard  flocks 

Of  the  Scald's  dreams,  nor  haunt  the  Druid's  sleep. 
What  if  the  tears  rained  through  thy  shattered  locks 
Were  quickly  dried  ?  for  thou  didst  groan,  not  weep, 
When  from  its  sea  of  death  to  kill  and  burn, 
The  Galilean  serpent  forth  did  creep, 
And  made  thy  world  an  undistinguishable  heap. 


A  thousand  years  the  Earth  cried.  "  Where  art  thou  ?" 

And  then  the  shadow  of  thy  coming  fell 
On  Saxon  Alfred's  olive-cinctured  brow  : 

And  many  a  warrior-peopled  citadel. 
Like  rocks  which  fire  lifts  out  of  the  flat  deep, 
Arose  in  sacred  Italy, 
Frowning  o'er  the  tempestuous  sea 
Of  kings  and  priests  and  slaves,  in  tower-crowned  majesty 
That  multitudinous  anarchy  did  sweep, 

And  burst  around  their  walls,  like  idle  foam. 
While  from  the  human  spirit's  deepest  deep, 

*  See  '  The  Bacchfe'  of  Euripides. 


ODE    TO    LIBERTY.  535 

Strange  melody  with  love  and  awe  struck  dumb 
Dissonant  Arms  ;  and  Art,  which  can  not  die, 
With  divine  wunt  traced  on  our  earthly  home 
Fit  imagery  to  pave  heaven's  everlasting  dome. 


Thou  huntress  swifter  than  the  moon  !  thou  terror 

Of  the  world's  wolves !  thou  bearer  of  the  quiver, 
Whose  sunlike  shafts  pierce  tempest-winged  Error, 

As  light  may  pierce  the  clouds  when  they  dissever 
In  the  calm  regions  of  the  orient  day  ! 

Luther  caught  thy  weakening  glance  ; 
Like  lightning,  from  his  leaden  lance 
Reflected,  it  dissolved  the  visions  of  the  trance 
In  which,  as  in  a  tomb,  the  nations  lay ; 

And  England's  prophets  hailed  thee  as  their  queen, 
In  songs  w^hose  music  can  not  pass  away, 
Though  it  must  flow  for  ever :  not  unseen 
Before  the  spirit-sighted  countenance 

Of  Milton  didst  thou  pass,  from  the  sad  scene 
Beyond  whose  night  he  saw,  with  a  dejected  mien. 


The  eager  hours  and  unreluctant  years 

As  on  a  dawn-illumined  mountain  stood. 
Trampling  to  silence  their  loud  hopes  and  fears, 

Darkening  each  other  with  their  multitude, 
And  cried  aloud,  "  Liberty  !"  —  Indignation 
Answered  Pity  from  her  cave  ; 
Death  grew  pale  within  the  grave, 
And  Desolation  howled  to  the  destroyer,  "  Save  !" 
When  like  heaven's  sun,  girt  by  the  exhalation 

Of  its  own  glorious  light,  thou  didst  arise, 
Chasing  thy  foes  from  nation  unto  nation 
Like  shadows :  as  if  day  had  cloven  the  skies. 
At  dreaming  midnight  o'er  the  wegtern  wave, 
Men  started,  staggering  with  a  glad  surprise. 
Under  the  lightnings  of  thine  unfamiliar  eyes. 


Thou  heaven  of  earth  !  what  spells  could  pall  thee  then, 

In  ominous  eclipse  ?    A  thousand  years, 
Bred  from  the  slime  of  deep  Oppression's  den, 

Dyed  all  thy  liquid  light  with  blood  and  tears. 
Till  thy  sweet  stars  could  weep  the  stain  away ; 
How  like  Bacchanals  of  blood 
Hound  France,  the  ghastly  vintage,  stood 
Destruction's  sceptred  slaves  and  Folly's  mitred  brood ! 
W^hen  one,  like  them,  but  mightier  far  than  they. 

The  anarch  of  thine  own  bewildered  powers 
Rose :  armies  mingled  in  obscure  array. 


536  ODE    TO    LIBERTY. 

Like  clouds  with  clouds,  darkening  the  sacred  bowers 
Of  serene  heaven.     He,  by  the  past  pursued, 
Rests  with  those  dead,  but  unforgotten  hours, 
"Whose  ghosts  scare  victor  kings  in  their  ancestral  towers 


England  yet  sleeps  :  was  she  not  called  of  old  ? 

Spain  calls  her  now,  as  with  its  thrilling  thunder 
Vesuvius  weakens  JKtna,,  and  the  cold 

Snow-crags  by  its  reply  are  cloven  in  sunder  : 
O'er  the  lit  waves  every  ^olian  isle 
From  Pithecusa  to  Pelorus 
Howls  and  leaps  and  glares  in  chorus  : 
They  cry,  '•  Be  dim,  ye  lamps  of  heaven  suspended  o'er  us. 
Her  chains  are  threads  of  gold  :  she  need  but  smile 

And  they  dissolve  ;  but  Spain's  were  links  of  steel, 
Till  bit  to  dust  by  Virtue's  keenest  file. 
Twins  of  a  single  destiny  !  appeal 
To  the  eternal  years  enthroned  before  us. 
In  the  dim  West :  impress  us  from  a  seal, 
All  ye  have  thought  and  done  !  Time  can  not  dare  conceal. 


Tomb  of  Arminius !  render  up  thy  dead, 

Till,  like  a  standard  from  a  watchtower's  staff. 
His  soul  may  stream  over  the  tyrants  head  ! 

Thy  victory  shall  be  his  epitaph. 
Wild  Bacchanal  of  Truth's  my.sterious  wine. 
King-deluded  Germany, 
His  dead  spirit  lives  in  thee  ! 
Why  do  we  fear  or  hope  ?  thou  art  already  free  ! 
And  thou,  lost  paradi,se  of  this  divine 

And  glorious  w^orld  !  thou  flowery  wilderness, 
Thou  island  of  eternity  !  thou  shrine 
Where  desolation,  clothed  with  loveliness, 
Worships  the  thing  thou  wert  !     O  Italy, 
Gather  thy  blood  into  thy  heart ;  repress 
The  beasts  who  make  their  dens  thy  sacred  palaces. 


O,  that  the  free  would  stamp  the  impious  name 

Q£  *  Tf  *  *  jj^^-Q  fjjg  jygj^  j  Qj.  yyrrite  it  there, 
So  that  this  blot  upon  the  page  of  fame 

Were  as  a  serpent's  path,  which  the  light  air 
Erases,  and  the  flat  sands  close  behind  : 
Ye  the  oracle  have  heard  : 
Lift  the  victory-flashing  sword. 
And  cut  the  snaky  knots  of  this  foul  gordian  word, 
Which,  weak  itself  as  stubble,  yet  can  bind 

Into  a  mass,  irrefragably  firm, 
The  axes  and  the  rods  which  awe  mankind  ; 


ODE    TO    LIBERTY.  537 

The  sound  has  poison  in  it,  'tis  the  sperm 
Of  what  makes  life  foul,  cankerous  and  abhorred ; 
Disdain  not  thou,  at  thine  appointed  term, 
To  set  thine  armed  heel  on  this  reluctant  worm  ! 


O,  that  the  wise  from  their  bright  minds  would  kindle 

Such  lamps  within  the  dome  of  this  dim  world. 
That  the  pale  name  of  priest  might  shrink  and  dwindle 

Into  the  hell  from  which  it  first  was  hurled, 
A  scoff  of  impious  pride  from  fiends  impure  ; 
Till  human  thoughts  might  kneel  alone, 
Each  before  the  judgement-throne 
Of  its  own  aweless  soul,  or  of  the  Power  unknown ! 
O,  that  the  words  which  make  the  thoughts  obscure 

From  which  they  spring,  as  clouds  of  glimmering  dew 
From  a  Avhite  lake  blot  heaven's  blue  portraiture. 
Were  stripped  of  their  thin  masks  and  various  hue, 
And  frowns  and  smiles  and  splendors  not  their  own, 
Till  in  the  nakedness  of  false  and  true 
They  stand  before  their  Lord,  each  to  receive  its  due. 


He  who  taught  man  to  vanquish  whatsoever 
Can  be  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave, 
Crowned  him  the  King  of  Life,     O  vain  endeavor! 

If  on  his  own  high  will  a  willing  slave. 
He  has  enthroned  the  oppression  and  the  oppressor. 
What  if  earth  can  clothe  and  feed 
Amplest  millions  at  their  need, 
And  power  in  thought  be  as  the  tree  within  the  seed  ? 
Or  what  if  Art,  an  ardent  intercessor 

Diving  on  fiery  wings  to  Nature's  throne. 
Checks  the  great  mother  stooping  to  caress  her, 
And  cries,  "  Give  me,  thy  child,  dominion 
Over  all  hight  and  depth  ?  if  Life  can  breed 
New  wants,  and  wealth  from  those  who  toil  and  groan, 
Rend  of  thy  gifts  and  hers  a  thousandfold  for  one." 

XVIII. 

Come  thou,  but  lead  out  of  the  inmost  cave 
Of  man's  deep  spirit,  as  the  morning  star 
Beckons  the  sun  from  the  Eoan  wave, 

W^isdom.     I  hear  the  pennons  of  her  car 
Self  moving,  like  cloud  charioted  by  flame  ; 
Comes  she  not,  and  come  ye  not. 
Rulers  of  eternal  thought. 
To  judge  with  solemn  truth  life's  ill-apportioned  lot  ? 
Blind  Love,  and  equal  Justice,  and  the  Fame 

Of  what  has  been,  the  Hope  of  what  will  be  ? 
O  Liberty  !  if  such  could  be  thy  name 


538  ARETHUSA. 

"Wert  thou  disjoined  from  these,  or  they  from  thee  : 
If  thine  or  theirs  were  treasures  to  be  bought 
By  blood  or  tears,  have  not  the  wise  and  free 
Wept  tears,  and  blood  like  tears  ?     The  solemn  harmony 


Paused,  and  the  spirit  of  that  mighty  singing 

To  its  abyss  was  suddenly  withdrawn  ; 
Then  as  a  wild  swan,  when  sublimely  winging 
Its  path  athwart  the  thunder-smoke  of  dawn, 
Sinks  headlong  through  the  aerial  golden  light 
On  the  heavy  sounding  plain, 
"When  the  bolt  has  pierced  its  brain  ; 
As  summer  clouds  dissolve,  unburdened  of  their  rain ; 
As  a  far  taper  fades  w^ith  fading  night, 

As  a  brief  insect  dies  w^ith  dying  day, 
My  song,  its  pinions  disarrayed  of  might, 
Drooped  :  o'er  it  closed  the  echoes  far  away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  flight  sustain, 
As  waves  w^hich  lately  paved  his  watery  way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their  tempestuous  play. 


ARETHUSA. 

Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 

In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  — 
From  cloud  and  from  crag. 
With  many  a  jag. 

Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leaped  down  the  rocks 
With  her  rainbow  locks 

Streaming  among  the  streams  ; 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 

Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams  : 
And  gliding  and  springing. 
She  went,  ever  singing. 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep  ; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 
And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  toward  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook  : 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks  ;  with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 


ARETHUSA. 

And  the  black  sputh  wiud 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below  : 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  river-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"  Oh,  save  me  !  oh,  guide  me  ! 
And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair  !" 
The  loud  Ocean  heard. 
To  its  blue  depths  stirred, 

And  divided  at  her  prayer  ; 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 

Fled  like  a  sunny  beam  ; 

Behind  her  descended. 
Her  billows  unblended 

With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream  : 
Like  a  gloomy  stain 
On  the  emerald  main 

Alpheus  rushed  behind  — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 
A  dove  to  its  ruin 

Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  powers 

Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 

Through  the  coral  woods 
Of  the  weltering  floods, 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones  ; 
Through  the  dim  beams 
Which  amid  the  streams 

Weave  a  network  of  colored  light ; 
And  under  the  caves, 
Where  the  shadowy  waves 

Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night : 
Outspeeding  the  shark, 
And  the  swordfish  dark, 

Under  the  ocean-foam. 

And  up  through  the  rifts 
Of  the  mountain- clifts 

They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 
In  Enna's  mountains, 


539 


540  HYMN    OF    APOLLO. 

Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks. 
Like  friends  once  parted 
Grown  single-hearted. 

They  ply  their  \vatery  tasks. 
At  sunrise  they  leap 
From  their  cradles  steep 

In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 
At  noontide  they  flow 
Through  the  woods  below 

And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel ; 
And  at  night  they  sleep 
In  the  rocking  deep 

Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore  ; 
Like  spirits  that  lie 
In  the  azure  sky 

When  they  love  but  live  no  more, 

FUa,  1820. 


HYMN  OF  APOLLO. 


The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie. 
Curtained  with  star-enwoven  tapestries, 

From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes  — 

Waken  me  when  their  mother,  the  gray  Dawn, 

Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  is  gone. 

Then  I  arise,  and  climbing  heaven's  blue  dome, 
I  walk  over  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 

Leaving  my  robe  upon  the  ocean-foam  ; 

My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  fire  ;  the  caves 

Are  filled  w^ith  my  bright  presence,  and  the  air 

Leaves  the  green  earth  to  my  embraces  bare. 

The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which  I  kill 
Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears  the  day  ; 

All  men  w^ho  do  or  even  imagine  ill 
Fly  me,  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 

Good  minds  and  open  actions  take  new^  might, 

Until  diminished  by  the  reign  of  Night. 

I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows  and  the  flov^'ers, 
With  their  ethereal  colors  ;  the  moon's  globe 

And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 

Are  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with  a  robe  ; 

Whatever  lamps  on  earth  or  heaven  may  shine, 

Are  portions  of  one  power,  which  is  mine. 


HYMN    OF    PAN.  541 

I  stand  at  noon  upon  the  peak  of  heaven, 
Then  with  unwilling  steps  I  wander  down 

Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even ; 

For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and  frown  : 

What  look  is  more  delightful  than  the  smile 

With  which  I  soothe  them  from  the  western  isle  ? 


I  am  the  eye  with  which  the  Universe 
Beholds  itself  and  knows  itself  divine ; 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  verse, 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine, 

All  light  of  art  or  nature  ;  to  my  song 

Victory  and  Praise  in  their  own  right  belong. 


HYMN  OF  PAN. 

From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come ; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes. 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme. 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle-bushes. 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus*  was. 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing. 

And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 
In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day. 

Speeded  with  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Sileni  and  Sy Ivans  and  Fauns,         « 

And  the  Nymphs  of  the  woods  and  waves. 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns, 

And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves, 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow. 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  d.nedal  Earth, 
And  of  Heaven — and  the  giant  wars. 

And  Love  and  Death  and  Birtb, 

*  This  and  the  former  poem  were  written  at  the  request  o(  a  friend,  to  be  insertet)  in 
a  drama  on  the  subject  of  Midas.  Apollo  and  Pan  contended  before  Tmolus  for  tlie 
prize  in  music. 


542  THE    TWO    SPIRITS. 

And  then  I  changed  my  pipings, 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menalus 

I  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasped  a  reed : 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus ! 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  then  we  bleed : 
All  -wept,  as  1  think  both  ye  now^  would, 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 

At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


SONG  OF  PROSERPINE, 

WHILE    GATHERING   FLOWERS   ON   THE   PLAIN    OF   ENNA. 

Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth, 
Thou  from  whose  immortal  bosom, 

Gods,  and  men,  and  beasts  have  birth, 
Leaf  and  blade  and  bud  and  blossom, 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 

If  with  mists  of  evening  dew^ 

Thou  dost  nourish  these  young  flowers 

Till  they  grow,  in  scent  and  hue, 
Fairest  children  of  the  hours. 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS. 

AN   ALLEGORY. 
FIRST    SPIRIT. 

O  THOU,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire 

Wouldst  float  above  the  earth,  beware  ! 
A  shadow  tracks  thy  flight  of  fire  — 

Night  is  coming ! 
Bright  are  the  regions  of  the  air, 

And  among  the  winds  and  beams 
It  were  delight  to  wander  there — 
Night  is  coming ! 

SECOND    SPIRIT. 

The  deathless  stars  are  bright  above  : 
If  I  would  cross  the  shade  of  night, 
Within  my  heart  is  the  lamp  of  love, 

And  that  is  day ! 
And  the  moon  will  smile  with  gentle  light 

On  my  golden  plumes  where'er  they  move  ; 
The  meteors  will  linger  round  my  flight, 
And  make  night  day. 


THE    QUESTION.  543 

FIllST    SPIRIT. 

But  if  the  whirlwinds  of  darkness  waken 

Hail  and  lightning  and  btormy  rain  ; 
See  the  bounds  of  the  air  are  shaken — 

Night  is  coming ! 

The  red  swift  clouds  of  the  hurricane 

Yon  declining  sun  have  overtaken, 

The  clash  of  the  hail  sweeps  over  the  plain — 

Night  is  coming ! 

SECOND   SPIRIT. 

I  see  the  light,  and  I  hear  the  sound ; 

I'll  sail  on  the  flood  of  the  tempest  dark, 
With  the  calm  within  and  the  light  around 

Which  makes  night  day  : 
And  thou,  when  the  gloom  is  deep  and  stark, 

Look  from  thy  dull  earth,  slumber-bound, 
My  moonlight  flight  thou  then  may'st  mark 
On  high,  far  av^ay. 

Some  say,  there  is  a  precipice 

Where  one  vast  pine  is  frozen  to  ruin 
O'er  piles  of  snow  and  chasms  of  ice 

'Mid  Alpine  mountains ; 
And  that  the  languid  storm  pursuing 
That  winged  shape,  for  ever  flies 
Round  those  hoar  branches,  aye  renewing 
Its  aery  fountains. 

Some  say.  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear. 

And  the  death  dews  sleep  on  the  morass, 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard  by  the  traveller, 

Which  makes  night  day  : 
And  a  silver  shape  like  his  early  love  doth  pass 

Upborne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair, 
And  when  he  awakes  on  the  fragrant  grass. 
He  finds  night  day. 


THE  aUESTION. 

I  DREAMKD  that,  33  I  wandered  by  the  way, 
Bare  w^inter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring. 

And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mixed  witli  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arn  s  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kissed  it  pnd  tlien  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  dream. 


544  LETTER    TO    MARIA    GISBORNE. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 

Daisies,  those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets : 

Faint  oxlips ;  tender  blue  bell,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears, 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  v^^arni  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine. 
Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-colored  May, 

And  cherry  blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  v/ine 
Was  the  bright  devv^  yet  drained  not  by  the  day  ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine. 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray  ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black  and  streaked  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  \vakened  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag  flowers,  purple  prankt  with  white, 
And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge. 

And  floating  water-lilies  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light 
And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  slieen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 

I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 
That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprisoned  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand,  and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  1  had  come, 
That  1  might  there  present  it !  —  Oh  !  to  whom  ? 


LETTER 

TO   MARIA   GISBORNE. 

L.egh(n-n,  July  1.  Ift20. 

The  spider  spreads  her  webs,  whether  she  be 

In  poet's  tower,  cellar,  or  barn,  or  tree ; 

The  silk-worm  in  the  dark-green  mulberry  leaves 

His  winding-sheet  and  cradle  ever  weaves ; 

So  I,  a  thing  whom  moralists  call  worm, 

Sit  spinning  still  round  this  decaying  form. 

From  the  fine  threads  of  rare  and  subrie  thought — 

No  net  of  words  in  garish  colors  wrought 

To  catch  the  idle  buzzers  of  the  day  — 

But  a  soft  cell,  where,  when  that  fades  away. 


LETTER    TO    MARTA    GISBORNE.  545 

Memory  may  clothe  in  wings  my  living  name 

And  feed  it  with  the  asphodels  of  fame, 

Which  in  those  hearts  which  most  remember  me 

Grow,  making  love  an  immortahty. 

Whoever  should  behold  me  now,  I  wist, 

Would  think  I  were  a  mighty  mechanist, 

Bent  with  sublime  Archimedean  art 

To  breatl>e  a  soul  into  the  iron  heart 

Of  some  machine  portentous,  or  strange  gin. 

Which  by  the  force  of  figured  spells  might  win 

Its  way  over  the  sea,  and  sport  therein  ; 

For  round  the  walls  are  hung  dread  engines,  such 

As  Vulcan  never  wrought  for  Jove  to  clutch 

Ixiou  or  the  Titan  —  or  the  quick 

Wit  of  that  man  of  God,  St.  Dominic, 

To  convince  atheist,  Turk  or  heretic  ; 

Or  those  in  philosophic  councils  met, 

Who  thought  to  pay  some  interest  for  the  debt 
They  owed  *  *  *  * 

By  giving  a  faint  foretaste  of  damnation 
To  Shakspeare,  Sidney,  Spenser,  and  the  rest 
Who  made  our  land  an  island  of  the  blest. 
When  lamp  like  Spain,  who  now  relumes  her  fire 
On  Freedom's  hearth,  grew  dim  with  empire  : 
With  thumbscrews,  wheels,  with  tooth  and  spike  and  jag. 
With  fishes  found  under  the  utmost  crag 
Of  Cornwall,  and  the  storm-encompassed  isles. 
Where  to  the  sky  the  rude  sea  seldom  smiles 
Unless  in  treacherous  wrath,  as  on  the  morn 
When  the  exulting  elements  in  scorn 
Satiated  with  destroyed  destruction,  lay 
Sleeping  in  beauty  on  their  mangled  prey. 
As  panthers  sleep  :  and  other  strange  and  dread 
Magical  forms  the  brick- lloor  overspread  — 
Proteus  transformed  to  metal  did  not  make 
More  figures,  or  more  strange  ;  nor  did  he  take 
Such  shapes  of  unintelligible  brass. 
Or  heap  himself  in  such  a  horrid  mass 
Of  tin  and  iron  not  to  be  understood. 
And  forms  of  unimaginable  wood. 
To  puzzle  Tubal  Cain  and  all  his  brood  : 
Great  screws  and  cones  and  wheels  and  grooved  blocks, 
The  elements  of  what  will  stand  the  shocks 
Of  wave  and  wind  and  time.  —  Upon  the  table 
More  knacks  and  (juips  there  be  than  I  am  able 
To  catalogize  in  this  verse  of  mine  : 
A  pretty  bowl  of  wood  —  not  full  of  wine. 
But  quicksilver:  that  dew  which  the  gnomes  drink 
When  at  their  subterranean  toil  they  swink. 
Pledging  the  demons  of  the  earthfjuake,  who 
Reply  to  them  in  lava-cry,  •'  Halloo  !'' 
And  call  out  to  the  cities  o'er  their  head  — 
Roofs,  towns  and  shrines  —  the  dying  and  the  dead 
35 


546  LETTER    TO    MARIA    GISBORNE. 

Crash  through  the  chinks  of  earth  —  and  then  all  quaff 

Another  rouse,  and  hold  their  sides  and  laugh. 

This  quicksilver  no  gnome  has  drunk  —  within 

The  walnut-bowl  it  lies,  veined  and  thin, 

In  color  like  the  wake  of  light  that  stains 

The  Tuscan  deep,  when  from  the  moist  moon  rains 

The  inmost  shower  of  its  white  fire  —  the  breeze 

Is  still  —  blue  heaven  smiles  over  the  pale  seas. 

And  in  this  bowl  of  quicksilver  —  for  I 

Yield  to  the  impulse  of  an  infancy 

Outlasting  manhood  —  I  have  made  to  float 

A  rude  idealLsm  of  a  paper  boat  — 

A  hollow  screw  with  cogs  —  Henry  will  know 

The  thing  I  mean,  and  laugh  at  me  — if  so 

He  fears  not  1  should  do  more  mischief.  —  Next 

Lie  bills  and  calculations  much  perplext, 

With  steamboats,  frigates,  and  machinery  quaint 

Traced  over  them  in  blue  and  yellow  paint. 

Then  comes  a  range  of  mathematical 

Instruments,  for  plans  nautical  and  statical, 

A  heap  of  rosin,  a  green  broken  glass 

With  ink  in  it ;  a  china  cup  that  was 

What  it  will  never  be  again,  I  think. 

A  thing  from  which  sweet  lips  were  wont  to  di-ink 

The  liquor  doctors  rail  at  —  and  which  1 

W^ill  quaff  in  spite  of  them  —  and  when  we  die 

We'll  toss  up  who  died  first  of  drinking  tea, 

And  cry  out,  "  Heads  or  tails  ?"  where'er  we  be. 

Near  that  a  dusty-paint  box.  some  old  books, 

A  half  burnt  match,  an  ivory  block,  three  books, 

W^here  conic  sections,  spherics,  logarithms, 

To  gi-eat  Laplace,  from  Saunderson  and  Sims, 

Lie  heaped  in  their  harmonious  disarray 

Of  figures  —  disentangle  them  who  may. 

Baron  de  Totts  Memoirs  beside  them  lie, 

And  some  odd  volumes  of  old  chimistry. 

Near  them  a  most  inexplicable  thing, 

W^ith  least  in  the  middle  —  I'm  conjecturing 

How  to  make  Henry  understand  ;  but — no, 

I'll  leave,  as  Spenser  says,  with  naany  mo, 

This  secret  in  the  pregnant  womb  of  Time, 

Too  vast  a  matter  for  so  weak  a  rhyme. 

And  here  like  some  weird  Archimage  sit  I, 
Plotting  dark  spells,  and  devilish  enginery. 
The  self-impelling  steam-wheels  of  the  mind 
Which  pump  up  oaths  from  clergymen,  and  grind 
The  gentle  spirit  of  our  meek  reviews 
Into  a  powdery  foam  of  salt  abuse. 
Ruffling  the  ocean  of  their  self-content ; 
I  sit  —  and  smile  or  sigh  as  is  my  bent. 
But  not  for  them  —  Libeccio  rushes  round 
With  an  inconstant  and  an  idle  sound, 


LETTER    TO    MARIA    GISBORNE.  547 

I  heed  him  more  than  them  —  the  thunder-smoke 

Is  gathering  on  the  mounlains,  Hke  a  cloak 

Folded  athwart  their  shoulders  broad  and  bare  ; 

The  ripe  corn  under  the  undulating  air 

Undulates  like  an  ocean  ;  and  the  vines 

Are  trembling  wide  in  all  their  trellised  lines  — 

The  murmur  of  the  awakening  sea  doth  fill 

The  empty  pauses  of  the  blast ;  the  hill 

Looks  hoary  through  the  white  electric  rain, 

And  from  the  glens  beyond,  in  sullen  strain 

The  interrupted  thunder  howls  ;  above 

One  chasm  of  heaven  smiles,  like  the  eye  of  love 

On  the  unquiet  world  ;  while  such  things  are, 

How  could  one  worth  your  friendship  heed  the  war 

Of  worms  ?     The  shriek  of  the  world's  carrion-jays, 

Their  censure  or  their  wonder  or  their  praise  ? 

You  are  not  here  !     The  quaint  witch  Memory  sees 

In  vacant  chairs  your  absent  images, 

And  points  where  once  you  sat,  and  now  should  be. 

But  are  not.     I  demand  if  ever  we 

Shall  meet  as  then  we  met :  and  she  replies, 

Vailing  in  awe  her  second-sighted  eyes. 

"  I  know  the  past  alone  ;  but  summon  home 

My  sister  Hope — she  speaks  of  all  to  come." 

But  I,  an  old  diviner,  who  know  well 

Every  false  verse  of  that  sweet  oracle. 

Turned  to  the  sad  enchantress  once  again. 

And  sought  a  respite  from  my  gentle  pain, 

In  acting  every  passage  o'er  and  o'er 

Of  our  communion.     How  on  the  seashore 

We  watched  the  ocean  and  the  sky  together, 

Under  the  roof  of  blue  Italian  weather ; 

How  I  ran  home  through  last  year's  thunder-storm. 

And  felt  the  transverse  lightning  linger  warm 

Upon  my  cheek  :  and  how  we  often  made 

Treats  for  each  other,  where  good-will  outweighed 

The  frugal  luxury  of  our  country  cheer, 

As  it  well  might,  weie  it  less  firm  and  clear 

Than  ours  must  ever  be  :  and  Ixnv  we  spun 

A  shroud  of  talk  to  hide  us  from  the  sun 

Of  this  familiar  life,  which  seems  to  be 

But  is  not  —  or  is  but  quaint  mockery 

Of  all  we  would  believe  ;  or  sadly  blame 

The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 

Of  this  wrong  world  ;  and  then  anatomize 

The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  men  whose  eyes 

Were  closed  in  distant  years ;  or  widely  guess 

The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business, 

When  we  shall  be  as  we  no  longer  are  ; 

Like  babbling  gos.sips  safe,  who  hear  the  war 

Of  winds,  and  sigh,  but  tremble  not ;  or  how^ 

You  listened  to  some  interrupted  flow 


548  LETTER    TO    MARIA    GISBORNE. 

Of  visionary  rhyme  ;  in  joy  and  pain 

Struck  from  the  inmost  fountains  of  my  brain, 

With  little  skill  perhaps  ;  or  how  we  sought 

Those  deepest  wells  of  passion  or  of  thought 

Wrought  by  wise  poets  in  the  waste  of  years, 

Staining  the  sacred  waters  with  our  tears : 

Gluenching  a  thirst  ever  to  be  renewed  ! 

Or  how  I,  wisest  lady  !  then  indued 

The  language  of  a  land  M^hich  now  is  free, 

And  v^^inged  with  thoughts  of  truth  and  majesty 

Flits  round  the  tyrant's  sceptre  like  a  cloud. 

And  bursts  the  peopled  prisons,  and  cries  aloud, 

"  My  name  is  Legion  !"  —  that  majestic  tongue 

Which  Calderon  over  the  desert  flung 

Of  ages  and  of  nations ;  and  which  found 

An  echo  in  our  hearts,  and  with  the  sound 

Startled  oblivion  :  thou  wert  then  to  me 

As  is  a  nurse  —  when  inarticulately 

A  child  would  talk  as  its  grown  parents  do. 

If  living  winds  the  rapid  clouds  pursue, 

If  hawks  chase  doves  through  the  aerial  way, 

Huntsmen  the  innocent  deer,  and  beasts  their  prey, 

Why  should  not  we  rouse  with  the  spirit's  blast 

Out  of  the  forest  of  the  pathless  past 

These  recollected  pleasures  ? 

You  are  now 
In  London,  that  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and  flow 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 
Vomits  its  w^recks,  and  still  howls  on  for  more. 
Yet  in  its  depth  what  treasures  !     You  will  see 
***** 

You  will  see  Coleridge  —  he  w^ho  sits  obscure 

In  the  exceeding  lustre  and  the  pure 

Intense  irradiation  of  a  mind, 

Which,  with  its  own  internal  lustre  blind. 

Flags  wearily  through  darkness  and  despair  — 

A  cloud-encircled  meteor  of  the  air,- 

A  hooded  eagle  among  blinking  owls. 

You  will  see  Hunt  —  one  of  those  happy  souls 

Which  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  without  whom 

This  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is  —  a  tomb  ; 

Who  is,  what  others  seem  :  his  room  no  doubt 

Is  still  adorned  by  many  a  cast  from  Shout, 

With  graceful  flowers,  tastefully  placed  about; 

And  coronals  of  bay  from  ribands  hung 

And  brighter  wreaths  in  neat  disorder  flung. 

The  gifts  of  the  most  learned  among  some  dozens 

Of  female  friends,  sisters-in-law  and  cousins. 

And  there  is  he  with  his  eternal  puns. 

Which  beat  the  dullest  brain  for  smiles,  like  duns 

Thundering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door  ; 

Alas  !  it  is  no  use  to  say,  "  I'm  poor !'' 


LETTER    TO    MARIA    GISBORNE.  549 

Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will  look 
Things  wiser  than  "were  ever  said  in  book, 
Except  in  Shakspeare's  wisest  tenderness. 

You  will  see  H ,  and  I  can  not  express 

His  virtues,  though  I  know  that  they  are  great, 

Because  he  locks,  then  bamcades,  the  gate 

W  ithin  which  they  inhabit :  of  his  wit 

And  wisdom,  you'll  cry  out  when  you  are  bit. 

He  is  a  pearl  within  an  oyster-shell, 

One  of  the  richest  of  the  deep.     And  there 

Is  English  P with  his  mountain  Fair 

Turned  into  a  Flamingo  —  that  shy  bird 

That  gleams  i'  the  Indian  air.     Have  you  not  heard 

"When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns  Hindoo, 

His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him  ?  but  you 

Will  see  him  and  will  like  him  too,  I  hope, 

With  the  milk-v^fhite  Snowdonian  antelope 

Matched  with  his  camelopard ;  his  fine  wit 

Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it ; 

A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age, 

Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots ;  let  his  page 

Wliich  charms  the  chosen  spirits  of  the  time, 

Fold  itself  up  for  a  serener  clime 

Of  years  to  come,  and  find  its  recompense 

In  that  just  expectation.     Wit  and  sense, 

Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 

Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delight, 

Are  all  combined  in  H.  S.  —  And  the.se. 

With  some  exceptions,  which  1  need  not  teaze 

Your  patience  by  descanting  on,  are  all 

You  and  I  know  in  London. 

I  recall 
My  thoughts  and  bid  you  look  upon  the  night. 
As  water  does  a  sponge,  so  the  moonlight 
Fills  the  void,  hollow,  universal  air. 
What  see  you  ?     Unpavilioned  heaven  is  fair, 
Whether  the  moon,  into  her  chamber  gone, 
Leaves  midnight  to  the  golden  stars,  or  wan 
Climbs  with  diminished  beams  the  azure  steep  ; 
Or  whether  clouds  sail  o'er  the  inverse  deep, 
Piloted  by  the  many-wandering  blast, 
And  the  rare  stars  rush  through  them,  dim  and  fast. 
All  this  is  beautiful  in  every  laud. 
But  what  see  you  beside  ?     A  shabby  stand 
Of  hackney-coaches — a  brick  house  or  wall. 
Fencing  some  lonely  court,  white  with  the  scrawl 
Of  our  unhappy  politics  :  or  worse  — 
A  wretched  woman  reeling  by,  whose  curse 
Mixed  with  the  watchman's,  partner  of  her  trade, 
You  must  accept  in  place  of  serenade  — 

I  see  a  chaos  of  green  leaves  and  fruit 
Built  round  dark  caverns,  even  to  the  root 


550  LETTER    TO    MARIA    GISBORNE. 

Of  the  living  stems  who  feed  them  ;  in  whose  bowers 

There  sleep  in  their  dark  dew  the  folded  flowers  ; 

Beyond,  the  surface  of  the  uusickled  corn 

Trembles  not  in  the  slumbering  air.  and  borne 

In  circles  quaint,  and  ever-changing  dance. 

Like  winged  stars  the  fireflies  flash  and  glance 

Pale  in  the  open  moonshine  ;  but  each  one 

Under  the  dark  trees  seems  a  little  sun, 

A  meteor  tamed  —  a  fixed  star  gone  astray 

From  the  silver  regions  of  the  milky  way. 

Afar  the  contadino's  song  is  heard. 

Rude,  but  made  sweet  by  distance  ;  and  a  bird 

Which  can  not  be  a  nightingale,  and  yet 

I  know  none  else  that  sings  so  sweet  as  it 

At  this  late  hour  ;  and  then  all  is  still : 

Now  Italy  or  London,  which  you  will ! 

Next  winter  you  must  pass  with  me  ;  I'll  have^ 
My  house  by  that  time  turned  into  a  grave 
Of  dead  despondence  and  low-thoughted  care, 
And  all  the  dreams  which  our  tormentors  are. 

O  that  H and were  there, 

With  everything  belonging  to  them  fair !  — 
We  will  have  books  —  Spanish,  Italian,  Greek, 


Though  we  eat  little  flesh  and  drink  no  wine, 

Yet  let's  be  merry  ;  we'll  have  tea  and  toast ; 

Custards  for  supper,  and  an  endless  host 

Of  syllabubs  and  jellies  and  mince-pies, 

And  other  such  ladylike  luxuries  — 

Feasting  on  which  we  will  philosophize. 

And  we'll  have  fires  out  of  the  grand  duke's  wood, 

To  thaw  the  six  weeks'  winter  in  our  blood. 

And  then  we'll  talk :  what  shall  we  talk  about  ? 

Oh  !  there  are  themes  enough  for  many  a  bout 

Of  thought-entangled  descant ;  as  to  nerves 

With  cones  and  parallelograms  and  curves, 

I've  sworn  to  strangle  them  if  once  they  dare 

To  bother  me  —  when  you  are  Mnth  me  there. 

And  they  shall  never  more  sip  laudanum 

From  Helicon  or  Himeros  :*  we'll  come, 

And  in  spite  of  *  *  *  and  of  the  devil. 

Will  make  our  friendly  philosophic  revel 

Outlast  the  leafless  time  —  till  buds  and  flowers 

Warn  the  obscure  inevitable  hours 

Sweet  meeting  by  sad  parting  to  renew  — 

"  To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new." 

*  'lutpoff,  from  which  the  river  Himera  was  named,  is.  with  some  shj. 
difference,  a  synonyme  of  Love. 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO. 


Count  Maddalo  is  a  Venetian  nobleman  of  ancient  family  and  of 
great  fortune,  who,  without  mixing  much  in  the  society  of  his  coun- 
trymen, resides  chiefly  at  his  magnificent  palace  in  that  city.  He  is  a 
person  of  the  most  consummate  genius  ;  and  capable,  if  he  would  di- 
rect his  energies  to  such  an  end,  of  becoming  the  redeemer  of  his 
degraded  country.  But  it  is  his  weakness  to  be  proud;  he  derives, 
from  a  comparison  of  his  own  extraordinary  mind  with  the  dwarfish 
intellects  that  surround  him,  an  intense  apprehension  of  the  nothing- 
ness of  human  life.  His  passions  and  his  powers  are  incomparably 
greater  than  those  of  other  men,  and  instead  of  the  latter  having  been 
employed  in  curbing  the  former,  they  have  mutually  lent  each  other 
strength.  His  ambition  preys  upon  itself,  for  want  of  objects  which  it 
can  consider  worthy  of  exertion.  I  say  that  Maddalo  is  proud,  because 
I  can  find  no  other  word  to  express  the  concentered  and  impatient 
feelings  which  consume  him  ;  but  it  is  on  his  own  hopes  and  affections 
only  that  he  seems  to  trample,  for  in  social  life  no  human  being  can 
be  more  gentle,  patient  and  unassuming  than  Maddalo.  He  is  cheer- 
ful, frank  and  witty.  His  more  serious  conversation  is  a  sort  of  in- 
toxication ;  men  are  held  by  it  as  by  a  spell.  He  has  traveled  much  ; 
and  there  is  an  inexpressible  charm  in  his  relation  of  his  adventures 
in  different  countries. 

Julian  is  an  Englishman  of  good  family,  passionately  attached  to 
those  philosophical  notions  which  assert  the  power  of  man  over  his 
own  mind,  and  the  immense  improvements  of  which,  by  the  extinction 
of  certain  moral  superstitions,  human  society  may  yet  be  susceptible. 
Without  concealing  the  evil  in  the  world,  he  is  for  ever  speculating 
how  good  may  be  made  superior.  He  is  a  complete  infidel,  and  a 
scoffer  at  all  things  reputed  holy  ;  and  Maddalo  takes  a  wicked  pleas- 
ure in  drawing  out  his  taunts  against  religion.  What  Maddalo  thinks 
on  these  matters  is  not  exactly  known.  Julian,  in  spite  of  his  hetero- 
dox opinions,  is  conjectured  by  his  friends  to  possess  some  good  quali- 
ties. How  far  this  is  possible  the  pious  reader  will  determine.  Julian 
is  rather  serious. 

Of  the  maniac  I  can  give  no  information.  He  seems  by  his  own 
account  to  have  been  disappointed  in  love.  He  was  evidently  a  very 
cultivated  and  amiable  person  when  in  his  right  senses.  His  story, 
told  at  length,  might  be  like  many  other  stories  of  the  same  kind:  the 
unconnected  exclamations  of  his  agony  will  perhaps  be  found  a  suffi- 
cient comment  for  the  text  of  every  heart. 


552  JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 

JULIAN  AND  MADDALO  : 

A    CONVERSATION. 

"  The  meadows  with  fresh  streams,  the  bees  with  thyme, 
The  goats  with  the  green  leaves  of  budding  spring, 
Are  saturated  not—  nor  Love  with  tears."—  Virgil's  Gallui. 

I  RODE  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo 

Upon  the  bank  of  land  which  breaks  the  flow 

Of  Adria  toward  Venice  :  a  bare  strand 

Of  hillocks,  heaped  from  ever-shifting  sand, 

Matted  with  thistles  and  amphibious  weeds, 

Such  as  from  Earth's  embrace  the  salt  ooze  breeds, 

Is  this  ;  an  uninhabited  seaside, 

Which  the  lone  fisher,  when  his  nets  are  dried, 

Abandons  ;  and  no  other  object  breaks 

The  waste,  but  one  dwarf  tree  and  some  few  stakes 

Broken  and  unrepaired,  and  the  tide  malies 

A  narrow  space  of  level  sand  thereon, 

Where  'twas  our  wont  to  ride  while  day  went  down. 

This  ride  was  my  delight.     I  love  all  waste 

And  solitary  places  ;  where  we  taste 

The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 

Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be : 

And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 

More  barren  than  its  billows  ;  and  yet  more 

Than  all,  with  a  remembered  friend  I  love 

To  ride  as  then  I  rode  ;  for  the  winds  drove 

The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 

Into  our  faces  ;  the  blue  heavens  were  bare, 

Stripped  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening  north  ; 

And,  from  the  waves,  sound  like  delight  broke  forth 

Harmonizing  with  solitude,  and  sent 

Into  our  hearts  aerial  merriment. 

So,  as  we  rode,  we  talked  ;  and  the  swift  thought, 

Wringing  itself  with  laughter,  lingered  not. 

But  flew  from  brain  to  brain — such  glee  was  oura, 

Charged  with  Ught  memories  of  remembered  hours, 

None  slow  enough  for  sadness :  till  we  came 

Homeward,  which  always  makes  the  spirit  tame. 

This  day  had  been  cheerful  but  cold,  and  now 

The  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  wind  also. 

Our  talk  grew  somewhat  serious,  as  may  be 

Talk  interrupted  with  such  raillery 

As  mocks  itself,  because  it  can  not  scorn 

The  thoughts  it  would  extinguish  :  'twas  forlorn, 

Yet  pleasing ;  such  as  once,  so  poets  tell, 

The  devils  held  within  the  dales  of  hell. 

Concerning  God,  free  will  and  destiny. 

Of  all  that  earth  has  been,  or  yet  may  be  ; 

All  that  vain  men  imagine  or  believe, 

Or  hope  can  paint,  or  suflFering  can  achieve, 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO.  553 

We  descanted  ;  and  I  (for  ever  still 

Is  it  not  wise  to  make  the  best  of  ill  ?) 

Argued  against  despondency  ;  but  pride 

Made  my  companion  take  the  darker  side. 

The  sense  that  he  was  greater  than  his  kind 

Had  struck,  methinks,  his  eagle  spirit  blind 

By  gazing  on  its  own  exceeding  light. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  paused  ere  it  should  alight 

Over  the  horizon  of  the  mountains  :  oh  ! 

How  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  the  glow 

Of  heaven  descends  upon  a  land  like  thee, 

Thou  paradise  of  exiles,  Italy  ! 

Thy  mountains,  seas  and  vineyards,  and  the  towers 

Of  cities  they  encircle  !  —  It  was  ours- 

To  stand  on  thee,  beholding  it :  and  then. 

Just  where  we  had  dismounted,  the  count's  men 

Were  waiting  for  us  with  the  gondola. 

As  those  who  pause  on  some  delightful  way, 

Though  bent  on  pleasant  pilgrimage,  we  stood 

Looking  upon  the  evening  and  the  flood, 

Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore.. 

Paved  with  the  image  of  the  sky  :  the  hoar 

And  airy  Alps  toward  the  north  appeared, 

Through  mist,  a  heaven-sustaining  bulwark,  reared 

Between  the  east  and  west ;  and  half  the  sky 

Was  roofed  with  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry. 

Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 

Down  the  steep  west  into  a  wondrous  hue 

Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 

Where  the  swift  sun  yet  paused  in  his  descent 

Among  the  many-folded  hills  —  they  were 

Those  famous  Euganean  hills,  which  bear, 

As  seen  from  Lido  through  the  harbor  piles. 

The  likeness  of  a  lump  of  peaked  isles  — 

And  then,  as  if  the  earth  and  sea  had  been 

Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  seen 

Those  mountains  towering,  as  from  waves  of  flame. 

Around  the  vaporous  sun,  from  which  there  came 

The  inmost  purple  spirit  of  light,  and  made 

Their  very  peaks  transparent.     "  Ere  it  fade," 

Said  my  companion,  "  I  will  show  you  soon 

A  better  station."     So,  o'er  the  lagune 

We  glided  ;  and  from  that  funereal  bark 

I  leaned,  and  saw  the  city,  and  could  mark 

How  from  their  many  isles,  in  evening's  gleam, 

Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 

Like  fabrics  of  enchantment  piled  to  heaven. 

I  was  about  to  speak,  when  —  "  We  are  even 

Now  at  the  point  I  meant,"  said  Maddalo, 

And  bade  the  gondolieri  cease  to  row. 

"  Look,  Julian,  on  the  west,  and  listen  well 

If  you  hear  not  a  deep  and  heavy  bell." 


554      •  JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 

I  looked,  and  saw  between  us  and  the  sun 

A  building  on  an  island,  such  a  one 

As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vile  — 

A  ^vindo\vless,  deformed  and  dreary  pile ; 

And  on  the  top  an  open  tower,  where  hung 

A  bell,  which  in  the  radiance  swayed  and  swung, 

"We  could  just  hear  its  coarse  and  iron  tongue : 

The  broad  sun  sank  behind  it,  and  it  tolled 

In  strong  and  black  relief.     "  What  we  behold 

Shall  be  the  madhouse  and  its  belfry  tower" — 

Said  Maddalo  ;  "  and  even  at  this  hour, 

Those  who  may  cross  the  water  hear  that  bell. 

Which  calls  the  maniacs,  each  one  from  his  cell, 

To  vespers."  —  "  As  much  skill  as  need  to  pray, 

In  thanks  or  hope  for  their  dark  lot  have  they. 

To  their  stern  Maker,"  I  replied.  —  "  O,  ho  ! 

You  talk  as  in  years  past,"  said  Maddalo. 

"  'Tis  strange  men  change  not.     You  were  ever  still 

Among  Christ's  flock  a  perilous  infidel, 

A  wolf  for  the  meek  lambs  :  if  you  can't  swim, 

Bew^are  of  Providence  !"     I  looked  on  him, 

But  the  gay  smile  had  faded  from  his  eye. 

"  And  such,"  he  cried,  "  is  our  mortality  ; 

And  this  must  be  the  emblem  and  the  sign 

Of  what  should  be  eternal  and  divine  ; 

And  like  that  black  and  dreary  bell,  the  soul, 

Hung  in  a  heaven-illumined  tower,  must  toll 

Our  thoughts  and  our  desires  to  meet  below 

Round  the  rent  heart,  and  pray  —  as  madmen  do  ; 

For  what  ?  they  know  not,  till  the  night  of  death, 

As  sunset  that  strange  vision,  severeth 

Our  memory  from  itself,  and  us  from  all 

We  sought,  and  yet  were  baffled."     1  recall 

The  sense  of  what  he  said,  although  I  mar 

The  force  of  his  expressions.     The  broad  star 

Of  day  meanwhile  had  sunk  behind  the  hill ; 

And  the  black  bell  became  invisible  ; 

And  the  red  tower  looked  gray  ;  and  all  between, 

The  churches,  ships  and  palaces,  were  seen 

Huddled  in  gloom  ;  into  the  purple  sea 

The  orange  hues  of  heaven  sunk  silently. 

We  hardly  spoke,  and  soon  the  gondola 

Conveyed  me  to  my  lodging  by  the  way. 

The  following  morn  was  rainy,  cold  and  dim : 
Ere  Maddalo  arose,  I  called  on  him. 
And  while  I  waited  with  his  child,  1  played  ; 
A  lovelier  toy  sweet  Nature  never  made  ; 
A  serious,  subtle,  wild,  yet  gentle  being : 
Graceful  without  design,  and  unforeseeing ; 
With  eyes  —  oh  !  speak  not  of  her  eyes  !  which  seem 
Twin  mirrors  of  Italian  heaven,  yet  gleam 
W^ith  such  deep  meaning  as  we  never  see 
But  in  the  human  countenance.    With  me 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO.  -    555 

She  was  a  special  favorite  :  I  had  nursed 

Her  fine  and  feeble  limbs,  when  she  came  first 

To  this  bleak  world  ;  and  yet  slie  seemed  to  know 

On  second  sight  her  ancient  playfellow, 

Less  changed  than  she  was  by  six  months  or  so. 

For,  after  her  first  shyness  was  worn  out, 

We  sate  there,  rolling  billiard-balls  about. 

When  the  count  entered.     Salutations  passed  : 

"  The  words  you  spoke  last  night  might  well  have  cast 

A  darkness  on  my  spirit  :  if  man  be 

The  passive  thing  you  say,  I  should  not  see 

Much  harm  in  the  religions  and  old  saws 

(Though  /  may  never  own  such  leaden  laws) 

Which  break  a  teachless  nature  to  the  yoke  : 

Mine  is  another  faith."     Thus  much  1  spoke, 

And,  noting  he  replied  not,  added  —  "  See 

This  lovely  child  —  blithe,  innocent  and  free  ; 

She  spends  a  happy  time,  with  little  care  ; 

While  we  to  such  sick  thoughts  subjected  are, 

As  came  on  you  last  night.     It  is  our  will 

Which  thus  enchains  us  to  permitted  ill. 

We  might  be  otherwise  ;  we  might  be  all 

We  dream  of — happy,  high,  majestical. 

Where  is  the  beauty,  love  and  truth,  we  seek, 

But  in  our  minds  ?     And,  if  we  were  not  weak, 

Should  we  be  less  in  deed  than  in  desire  ?"  — 

'•  Ay,  if  we  were  not  weak  —  and  we  aspire, 

How  vainly  !  to  be  strong,"  said  Maddalo : 

"  You  talk  Utopian"  — 

"  It  remains  to  know," 
I  then  rejoined,  "  and  those  who  try,  may  find 
How  strong  the  chains  are  which  our  spirit  bind  : 
Brittle  perchance  as  straw.     We  are  assured 
Much  may  be  conquered,  much  may  be  endured, 
Of  what  degrades  and  crushes  us.     We  know 
That  we  have  power  over  ourselves  to  do 
And  suffer  —  jvhat,  we  know  not  till  we  try; 
But  something  nobler  than  to  live  and  die  : 
So  taught  the  kings  of  old  philosophy, 
Who  reigned  before  religion  made  men  blind  ; 
And  those  who  suffer  with  their  suffering  kind. 
Yet  feel  this  faith,  religion." 

"  My  dear  friend. 
Said  Maddalo,  "  my  judgement  will  not  bend 
To  your  opinion,  though  I  think  you  might 
Make  such  a  sy.stem  refutation -tight, 
As  far  as  words  go.     1  knew  one  like  you. 
Who  to  this  city  came  some  months  ago, 
With  whom  I  argued  in  this  sort :  and  he 
Is  now  gone  mad  :  and  so  he  answered  me, 
Poor  fellow  !  —  But  if  you  would  like  to  go, 
We'll  visit  him,  and  his  wild  talk  will  show 


556     .  JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 

How  vain  are  such  aspiring  theories."  — 

"  I  hope  to  prove  the  induction  otherwise, 
And  that  a  want  of  that  true  theory  still, 
Which  seeks  a  soul  of  goodness  in  things  ill, 
Or  in  himself  or  others,  has  thus  bowed 
His  being  :  there  are  some  by  nature  proud. 
Who,  patient  in  all  else,  demand  but  this  — 
To  love  and  be  beloved  with  gentleness  : 
And  being  scorned,  what  wonder  if  they  die 
Some  living  death  ?     This  is  not  destiny, 
But  man's  own  willful  ill." 

As  thus  I  spoke, 
Servants  announced  the  gondola,  and  we 
Through  the  fast  falling  rain  and  high-wrought  sea 
Sailed  to  the  island  where  the  madhouse  stands. 
We  disembarked.     The  clap  of  tortured  hands, 
Fierce  yells  and  howlingy,  and  lamentings  keen, 
And  laughter  where  complaint  had  merrier  been. 
Accosted  us.     We  climbed  the  oozy  stairs 
Into  an  old  courtyard.     1  heard  on  high, 
Then,  fragments  of  most  touching  melody. 
,  But  looking  up.  saw  not  the  singer  there. 
Through  the  black  bars  in  the  tempestuous  air 
I  saw,  like  weeds  on  a  wrecked  palace  grovi^ing, 
Long  tangled  locks  flung  wildly  forth  and  flowing, 
Of  tho.se  on  a  sudden  who  were  beguiled 
Into  strange  silence,  and  looked  forth  and  smiled. 
Hearing  sweet  sounds.     Then  I : 

"  Methinks  there  w< 
A  cure  of  the.se  with  patience  and  kind  care, 
If  music  can  thus  move.     But  what  is  he, 
Whom  we  seek  here  V 

"  Of  his  sad  history 
I  know  but  this,"  said  Maddalo :  "  he  came 
To  Venice  a  dejected  man,  and  fame 
Said  he  was  wealthy,  or  he  had  been  so. 
Some  thought  the  loss  of  fortune  wrought  him  woe  ; 
But  he  was  ever  talking  in  such  sort 
As  you  do  —  but  more  sadly  ;  he  seemed  hurt, 
Even  as  a  man  with  his  peculiar  wrong. 
To  hear  but  of  the  oppression  of  the  strong, 
Or  those  absurd  deceits  (I  think  with  you 
In  some  respects,  you  know)  which  cany  through 
The  excellent  impostors  of  this  earth 
When  they  outface  detection.     He  had  worth. 
Poor  fellow  !  but  a  humorist  in  his  way."  — 
"  Alas  !  what  drove  him  mad  ?" 

"  I  can  not  say : 
A  lady  came  with  him  from  France,  and  when 
She  left  him  and  returned,  he  wandered  then 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO.  557 

About  yon  lonely  isles  of  desert  sand, 

Till  he  grew  wild.     He  had  no  cash  nor  land 

Remaining  :  the  police  had  brought  him  here  — 

Some  fancy  took  him,  and  he  would  not  bear 

Removal,  so  I  fitted  up  for  him 

Those  rooms  beside  the  sea,  to  please  his  whim  ; 

And  sent  him  busts  and  books  and  urns  for  flowers, 

Which  had  adorned  his  life  in  happier  hours, 

And  iustruments  of  music.     You  may  guess 

A  stranger  could  do  little  more  or  less 

For  one  so  gentle  and  unfortunate  — 

And  those  are  his  sweet  strains  which  charm  the  weight 

From  madmen's  chains,  and  make  this  hell  appear 

A  heaven  of  sacred  silence,  hushed  to  hear." 

"  Nay,  this  was  kind  of  you  :  he  had  no  claim, 
As  the  world  says." 

"  None  but  the  very  same 
Which  I  on  all  mankind,  were  I.  as  he. 
Fallen  to  such  deep  reverse.     His  melody 
Is  interrupted  now  :  we  hear  the  din 
Of  madmen,  shriek  on  shriek,  again  begin : 
Let  us  now  visit  him  :  after  this  strain. 
He  ever  communes  with  himself  again, 
And  sees  and  hears  not  any." 

Having  said 
These  words,  we  called  the  keeper,  and  he  led 
To  an  apartment  opening  on  the  sea. — 
There  the  poor  wretch  was  sitting  mournfully 
Near  a  piano,  his  pale  fingers  twined 
One  with  the  other ;  and  the  ooze  and  wind 
Rushed  through  an  open  casement,  and  did  sway 
His  hair,  and  starred  it  with  the  brackish  spray : 
His  head  was  leaning  on  a  music  book, 
And  he  was  muttering  ;  and  his  lean  limbs  shook  ; 
His  lips  were  pressed  against  a  folded  leaf, 
In  hue  too  beautiful  for  health,  and  grief 
Smiled  in  their  motions  as  they  lay  apart. 
As  one  who  wrought  from  his  own  fervid  heart 
The  eloquence  of  passion  :  soon  he  raised 
His  sad  meek  face,  and  eyes  lustrous  and  glazed, 
And  spoke  —  sometimes  as  one  who  wrote,  and  thought 
His  words  might  move  some  heart  that  heeded  not. 
If  sent  to  distant  lands  ;  and  then  as  one 
Reproaching  deeds  never  to  be  undone. 
With  wondering  self-compassion  ;  then  his  speech 
Was  lost  in  grief,  and  then  his  words  came  each 
Unmodulated  and  expre-ssiouless  — 
But  that  from  one  jarred  accent  you  might  guess 
It  was  despair  made  them  so  uniform  : 
And  all  the  while  the  loud  and  gusty  storm 
Hi.ssed  through  the  window,  and  we  stood  behind, 
Sti'uliii  '  his  accents  from  the  envious  wind. 


558  JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 

Unseen.     I  yet  remember  -what  he  said 
Distinctly,  such  impression  his  words  made. 

"  Month  after  month,"  he  cried,  "  to  bear  this  load, 
And,  as  a  jade  urged  by  the  whip  and  goad, 
To  drag  life  on  —  which  like  a  heavy  chain 
Lengthens  behind  with  many  a  link  of  pain. 
And  not  to  speak  my  grief —  O,  not  to  dare 
To  give  a  human  voice  to  my  despair  ; 
But  hve,  and  move,  and,  wretched  thing  !  smile  on. 
As  if  I  never  w^ent  aside  to  groan. 
And  wear  this  mask  of  falsehood  even  to  those 
Who  are  most  dear  —  not  for  my  own  repose  — 
Alas  !  no  scorn  nor  pain  nor  hate  could  be 
So  heavy  as  that  falsehood  is  to  me  — 
But  that  I  can  not  bear  more  altered  faces 
Than  needs  must  be,  more  changed  and  cold  embraces 
More  misery,  disappointment  and  mistrust, 
To  own  me  for  their  father.     Would  the  dust 
Were  covered  in  upon  my  body  now  ! 
That  the  life  ceased  to  toil  within  my  brow  ! 
And  then  these  thoughts  would  at  the  last  be  fled  : 
Let  us  not  fear  such  pain  can  vex  the  dead. 

"  What  Power  delights  to  torture  us  ?     I  know 
That  to  myself  1  do  not  wholly  owe 
What  now  I  suffer,  though  in  part  I  may. 
Alas !  none  strewed  fresh  flowers  upon  the  w^ay 
Where,  wandering  heedlessly,  1  met  jjale  Pain, 
My  shadow,  which  will  leave  me  not  again. 
If  I  have  erred,  there  was  no  joy  in  error, 
But  pain  and  insult  and  unrest  and  teiTor; 
I  have  not,  as  some  do,  bought  penitence 
With  pleasure,  and  a  dark  yet  sweet  offence ; 
For  then  if  love  and  tenderness  and  truth. 
Had  overlived  Hope's  momentary  youth. 
My  creed  should  have  redeemed  me  from  repenting  ; 
But  loathed  scorn  and  outrage  unrelenting 
Met  love  excited  by  far  other  seeming 
Until  the  end  was  gained  :  as  one  from  dreaming 
Of  sweetest  peace,  I  woke,  and  found  my  state 
Such  as  it  is — 

"  O  thou,  my  spirit's  mate  ! 
Who,  for  thou  art  compassionate  and  wise, 
Wouldst  pity  me  from  thy  most  gentle  eyes 
If  this  sad  writing  thou  should.st  ever  see. 
My  secret  groans  must  be  unheard  by  thee ; 
Thou  wouldst  weep  tears,  bitter  as  blood,  to  know 
Thy  lost  friend's  incommunicable  woe. 
Ye  few  by  whom  my  nature  has  been  weighed 
In  friendship,  let  me  not  that  name  degrade, 
By  placing  on  your  hearts  the  secret  load 
Which  crushes  mine  to  dust.     There  is  one  road 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO.  559 

To  peace,  and  that  is  truth,  which  follow  ye ! 

Love  sometimes  leads  astray  to  misery. 

Yet  think  not,  though  subdued  (and  I  may  well 

Say  that  I  am  subdued)  — that  tiie  full  hell 

Within  me  would  infect  the  untainted  breast 

Of  sacred  nature  with  its  own  unrest ; 

As  some  perverted  beings  think  to  find 

In  scorn  or  hate  a  medicine  for  the  mind 

Which  scorn  or  hate  hath  wounded.     O,  how  vain! 

The  dagger  heals  not,  but  may  rend  again. 

Believe  that  I  am  ever  still  the  .'<ame 

In  creed  as  in  resolve  ;  and  what  may  tame 

My  heart,  must  leave  the  under.standing  free, 

Or  all  would  .sink  under  this  agony. 

Nor  dream  that  I  will  join  the  vulgar  eye, 

Or  with  my  silence  sanction  tyranny, 

Or  seek  a  moment' .s  shelter  from  my  pain 

In  any  madness  which  the  world  calls  gain  ; 

Ambition,  or  revenge,  or  thoughts  as  stern 

As  those  which  make  me  what  I  am,  or  turn 

To  avarice  or  misanthropy  or  Inst. 

Heap  on  me  soon,  O  grave,  thy  welcome  dust ! 

'Till  then  the  dungeon  may  demand  its  prey ; 

And  Poverty  and  Shame  may  meet  and  say, 

Halting  beside  me  in  the  public  way  — 

'  That  love-devoted  youth  is  ours  :  let's  sit 

Beside  him:  he  may  live  some  six  months  yet.' 

Or  the  red  scaffold,  as  our  country  bends, 

May  ask  some  willing  victim  ;  or  ye.  friends. 

May  fall  under  some  .sorrow,  which  this  heart 

Or  hand  may  .share  or  vanquish  or  avert; 

I  am  prepared,  in  truth,  with  no  proud  joy, 

To  do  or  suffer  aught,  as  when  a  boy 

I  did  devote  to  ju.stice,  and  to  love, 

My  nature,  worthless  now. 

"  I  mu.st  remove 
A  veil  from  my  pent  mind.     'Tis  torn  aside  ! 

0  !  pallid  as  Death's  dedicated  bride. 
Thou  mockery  which  art  sitting  by  my  side, 
Am  I  not  wan  like  thee  ?     At  the  grave's  call 

1  haste,  invited  to  thy  w^edding  ball. 

To  meet  the  ghastly  paramoiir,  for  whom 

Thou  hast  deserted  me,  and  made  the  tomb 

Thj^  bridal  bed.     But  I  beside  thy  feet 

Will  lie,  and  watch  ye  from  my  winding-sheet 

Thus  —  wide  awake  though  dead  —  Yet  stay,  O,  stay  ! 

Go  not  so  soon  —  I  know  not  what  I  say  — 

Hear  but  my  rea.sons — I  am  mad,  I  fear, 

My  fancy  is  o'erwrought  —  thou  art  not  here. 

Pale  art  thou,  'tis  most  true but  thou  art  gone — 

Thy  work  is  finished  ;  I  am  left  alone. 


560  JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 

"  Nay,   was  it  1  who  wooed  thee  to  this  breast, 

Which  like  a  serpent  thou  envenomest 

As  in  repayment  of  the  warmth  it  lent  ? 

Didst  thou  not  seek  me  for  thine  own  content  ? 

Did  not  thy  love  awaken  mine  ?  I  thought 

That  thou  wert  she  who  said  '  You  kiss  me  not 

Ever  ;  I  fear  you  do  not  love  me  novs^.' 

In  truth  I  loved  even  to  my  overthrow 

Her,  who  would  fain  forget  these  words,  but  they 

Cling  to  her  mind,  and  can  not  pass  away. 


"  You  say  that  I  am  proud  ;  that  when  I  speak, 

My  lip  is  tortured  with  the  wrongs,  which  break 

The  spirit  it  expresses.     Never  one 

Humbled  himself  before,  as  I  have  done  ! 

Even  the  instinctive  worm  on  which  we  tread 

Turns,  though  it  wound  not  —  tlien,  with  prostrate  head, 

Sinks  in  the  dust,  and  writhes  like  me  —  and  dies  : 

No  :  —  wears  a  living  death  of  agonies  ! 

As  the  slow  shadows  of  the  pointed  grass 
Mark  the  eternal  periods,  its  pangs  pass, 
Slow,  ever-moving,  making  moments  be 
As  mine  seem,  each  an  immortality  ! 


"  That  you  had  never  seen  me  !  never  heard 

My  voice  !  and,  more  than  all,  had  ne'er  endured 

The  deep  pollution  of  my  loathed  embrace  ! 

That  your  eyes  ne'er  had  lied  love  in  my  face ! 

That,  like  some  maniac  monk,  I  had  torn  out 

The  nerves  of  manhood  by  their  bleeding  root 

With  mine  own  quivering  fingers  !  so  that  ne'er 

Our  hearts  had  for  a  moment  mingled  there, 

To  disunite  in  hon-or  !     These  were  not 

With  thee  like  some  suppressed  and  hideous  thought, 

Which  flits  athwart  our  musings,  but  can  find 

No  rest  within  a  pure  and  gentle  mind — 

Thou  sealedst  them  with  many  a  bare  broad  word, 

And  searedst  my  memory  o'er  them,  for  I  heai'd 

And  can  forget  not  —  they  were  ministered. 

One  after  one,  those  curses.     Mix  them  up 

Like  self-destroying  poisons  in  one  cup; 

And  they  will  make  one  blessing,  which  thou  ne'er 

Didst  imprecate  for  on  me death  ! 

"  It  were 
A  cruel  punishment  for  one  most  cruel, 
If  such  can  love,  to  make  that  love  the  fuel 
Of  the  mind's  hell  —  hate,  scorn,  remorse,  despair: 
But  me,  whose  heart  a  stranger's  tear  might  wear. 
As  water-drops  the  sandy  fountain  stone  ; 
Who  loved  and  pitied  all  things,  and  could  moan 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO.  561 

For  woes  which  others  hear  not,  and  could  see 
The  absent  with  the  glass  of  phantasy, 
And  near  the  poor  and  trampled  sit  and  weep, 
Following  the  captive  to  his  duni,'eon  deep  ; 
Me,  who  am  as  a  nerve  o'er  which  do  creep 
The  else-unfelt  oppressions  of  this  earth, 
And  was  to  thee  the  flame  upon  thy  hearth, 
When  all  beside  w^as  cold  :  that  thou  on  me 
Should  rain  these  plagues  of  bli.'-tering  agony  — 
Such  curses  are  from  lips  once  eloquent 
With  love's  too  partial  praise  !     Let  none  relent 
Who  intend  deeds  too  dreadful  for  a  name 
Henceforth,  if  an  example  for  the  same 
They  seek :  for  thou  on  me  lookedst  so  and  so, 
And  didst  speak  thus  and  thus.     1  live  to  show 
How  much  men  bear,  and  die  not. 


"  Thou  wilt  tell, 
With  the  grimace  of  hate,  how  horrible 
It  was  to  meet  my  love  when  thine  grew  less  ; 
Thou  wilt  admire  how  I  could  e'er  address 
Such  features  to  love's  work  ....  This  taunt,  though  true, 
(For  indeed  Nature  nor  in  form  nor  hue 
Bestowed  on  me  her  choicest  workmanship) 
Shall  not  be  thy  defense :  for  since  thy  life 
Met  mine  first,  years  long  past  —  since  thine  eye  kindled 
With  soft  fire  under  mine  —  I  have  not  dwindled, 
Nor  changed  in  mind  or  body,  or  in  aught 
But  as  love  changes  what  it  loveth  not 
After  long  years  and  many  trials. 


"  How  vain 
Are  words  !     I  thought  never  to  speak  again, 
Not  even  in  secret,  not  to  my  own  heart  — 
But  from  my  lips  the  unwilling  accents  start, 
And  from  my  pen  the  words  flow  as  I  write. 
Dazzling  my  eyes  with  scalding  tears :  my  sight 
Is  dim  to  see  that  charactered  in  vain. 
On  this  unfeeling  leaf,  which  burns  the  brain 
And  eats  into  it,  blotting  all  things  fair 
And  wise  and  good  which  Time  had  written  there. 
Those  who  inflict  must  suffer,  for  they  see 
The  work  of  their  own  hearts,  and  that  must  be 
Our  chastisement  or  recompense.     ()  child  ! 
I  would  that  thine  were  like  to  be  more  mild 
For  both  our  wretched  sakes  —  fo-  thine  the  most. 
Who  feel'st  already  all  that  thon  Imst  lost. 
Without  the  power  to  wish  it  thino  again. 
And,  as  slow  years  pass,  a  funereal  train, 
36 


562  JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 

Each  with  the  ghost  of  some  lost  hope  or  friend 
Following  it  like  its  shadow,  wilt  thou  bend 
No  thought  on  my  dead  memory  ? 


"  Alas,  love ! 
Fear  me  not :  against  thee  I'd  not  move 
A  finger  in  despite.     Do  I  not  live 
That  thou  mayest  have  less  bitter  cause  to  grieve  ? 
I  give  thee  tears  for  scorn,  and  love  for  hate  : 
And,  that  thy  lot  may  be  less  desolate 
Than  his  on  whom  thou  tramplest,  I  refrain 
From  that  sweet  sleep  v^'hich  medicines  all  pain. 
Then  —  when  thou  speakest  of  me  —  never  say, 
*  He  could  forgive  not.'     Here  I  cast  away 
All  human  passions,  all  revenge,  all  pride  ; 
I  think,  speak,  act  no  ill ;  I  do  but  hide 
Under  these  words,  like  embers,  every  spark 
Of  that  which  has  consumed  me.     Cluick  and  dark 
The  grave  is  yawning  :  as  its  roof  shall  coyer 
My  limbs  with  dust  and  worms,  under  and  over. 
So  let  oblivion  hide  this  grief     The  air 
Closes  upon  my  accents,  as  despair 
Upon  my  heart  —  let  death  upon  my  care  !" 

He  ceased,  and  overcome,  leaned  back  awhile  ; 
Then  rising,  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
Went  to  a  sofa,  and  lay  down,  and  slept 
A  heavy  sleep,  and  in  his  dreams  he  wept, 
And  muttered  some  familiar  name,  and  we 
Wept  without  shame  in  his  society. 
I  think  I  never  was  impressed  so  much  : 
The  man  who  was  not  must  have  lacked  a  touch 
Of  human  nature.     Then  we  lingered  not. 
Although  our  argument  was  quite  forgot ; 
But,  calling  the  attendants,  went  to  dine 
At  Maddalo's  :  yet  neither  cheer  nor  wine 
Could  give  us  spirits,  for  we  talked  of  him, 
And  nothing  else,  till  daylight  made  stars  dim. 
And  we  agreed  it  was  some  dreadful  ill 
Wrought  on  him  boldly,  yet  unspeakable, 
By  a  dear  friend  ;  some  deadly  change  in  love 
Of  one  vowed  deeply  which  he  dreamed  not  of; 
For  whose  sake  he,  it  seemed,  had  fixed  a  blot 
Of  falsehood  in  his  mind,  which  flourished  not 
But  in  the  light  of  all-beholding  truth  ; 
And  having  stamped  this  canker  on  his  youth. 
She  had  abandoned  him  :  and  how  much  more 
Might  be  his  woe,  we  guessed  not:  he  had  store 
Of  friends  and  fortune  once,  as  we  could  guess 
From  his  nice  habits  and  his  gentleness  : 
These  now  were  lost  —  it  were  a  grief  indeed 
If  he  had  changed  one  unsnstaining  reed 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO.  563 

For  all  that  such  a  man  might  else  adorn. 
The  colors  of  his  mind  seemed  yet  unworn ; 
For  the  wild  language  of  his  grief  was  high  — 
Such  as  in  measure  were  called  poetry. 
And  I  remember  one  remark,  which  then 
Maddalo  made  :  he  said,  "  Most  wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  -vs^rong  : 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song. 

If  I  had  been  an  unconnected  man, 
I,  from  the  moment,  should  have  formed  some  plan 
Never  to  leave  sweet  Venice  :  for  to  me 
It  was  delight  to  ride  by  the  lone  sea : 
And  then  the  town  is  silent  —  one  may  write 
Or  read  in  gondolas,  by  day  or  night, 
Having  the  little  brazen  lamp  alight, 
Unseen,  uninterrupted  :  books  are  there, 
Pictures,  and  casts  from  all  those  statues  fair 
"Which  were  twin-born  with  poetry  ;  and  all 
We  seek  in  towns,  with  little  to  recall 
Regret  for  the  green  country  :  I  might  .sit 
In  Maddalo's  great  palace,  and  his  wit 
And  subtle  talk  would  cheer  the  winter  night. 
And  make  me  know  myself:  and  the  firelight 
Would  fiash  upon  our  faces,  till  the  day 
Might  dawn,  and  make  me  wonder  at  my  stay. 
But  I  had  friends  in  London  too.     The  chief 
Attraction  here  was  that  I  sought  relief 
From  the  deep  tenderness  that  maniac  wrought 
Within  me  — 'twas  perhaps  an  idle  thought, 
But  I  imagined  that  if,  day  by  day. 
I  watched  him,  and  seldom  went  away, 
And  studied  all  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
With  zeal,  as  men  study  some  stubborn  art 
For  their  own  good,  and  could  by  patience  find 
An  entrance  to  the  caverns  of  his  mind, 
I  might  reclaim  him  from  his  dark  estate. 
In  friendships  I  had  been  most  fortunate, 
Yet  never  saw  I  one  whom  I  would  call 
More  willingly  my  friend  :  and  this  was  all 
Accomplished  not ;  such  dreams  of  baseless  good 
Oft  come  and  go,  in  crowds  or  solitude, 
And  leave  no  trace  !  —  but  what  I  now  designed, 
Made,  for  long  years,  impression  on  my  mind. 
The  following  morning,  urged  by  my  affairs, 
I  left  bright  Venice. 

After  many  years, 
And  many  changes,  I  returned  :  the  name 
Of  Venice,  and  its  a.spect,  was  the  same ; 
But  Maddalo  was  traveling,  far  away, 
Among  the  mountains  of  Armenia. 
His  dog  was  dead  :  his  child  had  now  become 
A  woman,  such  as  it  has  been  my  doom 


564  TO    MARY. 

To  meet  with  few  ;  a  wonder  of  this  earth, 

Where  there  is  little  of  transcendent  worth  — 

Like  one  of  Shakspeare's  women.     Kindly  she. 

And  with  a  manner  beyond  courtesy. 

Received  her  father's  friend  ;  and,  when  I  asked 

Of  the  lorn  maniac,  she  her  memory  tasked, 

And  told,  as  she  had  heard,  the  mournful  tale  : 

'•  That  the  poor  sufferer's  health  began  to  fail 

Two  years  from  my  departure  ;  but  that  then 

The  lady,  who  had  left  him,  came  again. 

Her  mien  had  been  imperious,  but  she  now 

Looked  meek  ;  perhaps  remorse  had  brought  her  low. 

Her  coming  made  him  better  ;  and  they  stayed 

Together  at  my  father's  —  for  1  played, 

As  I  remember,  with  the  lady's  shawl ; 

I  might  be  six  years  old  :  but.  after  all. 

She  left  him."  — 

"  Why,  her  heart  mu.st  have  been  tough 
How  did  it  end  ?" 

"  And  was  not  this  enough  ? 
They  met  —  they  parted  !" 

"  Child,  is  there  no  more  1" 

"  Something  within  that  interval,  which  bore 
The  stamp  of  tahy  they  parted,  hoto  they  met : 
Yet,  if  thine  aged  eyes  disdain  to  wet 
Those  wrinkled  cheeks  with  youth's  remembered  tears, 
Ask  me  no  more  ;  but  let  tlie  silent  years 
Be  closed  and  cered  over  their  memory, 
As  yon  mute  marble,  where  their  corpses  lie." 
I  urged  and  questioned  still :  she  told  me  how 
All  happened  —  but  the  cold  world  shall  not  know. 


TO  MARY, 

(on  her  objecting  to  the  following  poem,  upon  the  score 
OF  its  containing  no  human  interest). 

How.  my  dear  Mary,  are  you  critic-bitten 

(For  vipers  kill,  though  dead)  by  some  review, 

That  you  condemn  these  verses  I  have  written, 
Because  they  tell  no  story,  false  or  true  ? 

What,  though  no  mice  are  caught  by  a  young  kitten, 
May  it  not  leap  and  play  as  grown  cats  do. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS.  665 

Till  its  claws  come  ?     Prithee,  for  this  one  time, 
Content  thee  with  a  visionary  rhyme. 

What  hand  would  crush  the  silken-winged  fly, 
The  youngest  of  inconstant  April's  minions, 

Because  it  can  not  climb  the  purest  sky. 

Where  the  swan  sings,  amid  the  sun's  dominions  ? 

Not  thine  !  thou  knowest  'tis  his  doom  to  die. 
When  day  shall  hide  w^ithin  her  twilight  pinions 

The  lucent  eyes,  and  the  eternal  smile. 

Serene  as  thine,  which  lent  it  life  awhile. 

To  thy  fair  feet  a  winged  Vision  came, 
Whose  date  should  have  been  longer  than  a  day. 

And  o'er  thy  head  did  beat  its  wings  for  fame, 
And  in  thy  sight  its  fading  plumes  display  ; 

The  watery  bow  burned  in  the  evening  flame, 
But  the  shower  fell,  the  swift  sun  went  his  way  — 

And  that  is  dead. O,  let  me  not  believe 

That  any  thing  of  mine  is  fit  to  live  ! 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 

Before  tliose  cruel  Twins,  whom  at  one  birth 
Incestuous  Change  bore  to  her  Father  Time, 

Error  and  Truth,  had  hunted  from  the  earth 

All  those  bright  natures  which  adorned  its  prime. 

And  left  us  nothing  to  believe  in,  worth 
The  pains  of  putting  into  learned  rhyme, 

A  lady-w^itch  there  lived  on  Atlas'  mountain 

Within  a  cavern  by  a  secret  fountain. 

Her  mother  was  one  of  the  Atlantides  ; 

The  all-beholding  Sun  had  ne'er  beholden 
In  his  wide  voyage  o'er  continents  and  seas 

So  fair  a  creature,  as  she  lay  eufolden 
In  the  warm  shadow  of  her  loveliness  : 

He  kis.sed  her  with  his  beams,  and  made  all  golden 
The  chamber  of  gray  rock  in  which  she  lay  — 
She,  in  that  dream  of  joy,  dissolved  away. 

'Tis  said,  she  was  first  changed  into  a  vapor, 
And  then  into  a  cloud,  such  clouds  as  flit. 

Like  splendor-winged  moths  about  a  taper. 
Hound  the  red  west  when  the  sun  dies  in  it : 

And  then  into  a  meteor,  such  as  caper 
On  hilltops  when  the  moon  is  in  a  fit ; 

Then  into  one  of  those  mysterious  stars 

Which  hide  themselves  between  the  Earth  and  Mar.«. 


566  THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS. 

Ten  times  the  mother  of  the  Months  had  bent 
Her  bow  beside  the  folding-star,  and  bidden 

With  that  bright  sign  the  billows  to  indent 
The  sea-desetted  sand  :  like  children  chidden. 

At  her  command  they  ever  came  and  went : 
Since  in  that  cave  a  dewy  splendor  hidden, 

Took  shape  and  motion  :  with  the  living  form 

Of  this  embodied  Power,  the  cave  grew  warm. 

A  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light 

From  her  own  beauty  —  deep  her  eyes,  as  are 
Two  openings  of  unfathbmable  night 

Seen  through  a  tempest's  cloven  roof:  her  hair 
Dark  :  the  dim  brain  whirls  dizzy  with  delight. 

Picturing  her  form  ;  her  soft  smiles  shone  afar. 
And  her  low  voice  was  heard  like  love,  and  drew 
All  living  things  toward  this  wonder  new. 

And  first  the  spotted  camelopard  came, 
And  then  the  wise  and  fearless  elephant ; 

Then  the  »\y  serpent,  in  the  golden  flame 
Of  his  own  volumes  intervolved  ;  all  gaunt 

And  sanguine  beasts  her  gentle  looks  made  tame. 
They  drank  before  her  at  her  sacred  fount : 

And  every  beast  of  beating  heart  grew  bold, 

Such  gentleness  and  power  even  to  behold. 

The  brinded  lioness  led  forth  her  young. 

That  she  might  teach  them  how  they  should  forego 

Their  inborn  thirst  of  death  ;  the  pard  unstrung 
His  sinews  at  her  feet,  and  sought  to  know 

With  looks  whose  motions  spoke  without  a  tongue 
How  he  might  be  as  gentle  as  the  doe. 

The  magic  circle  of  her  voice  and  eyes 

All  savage  natures  did  imparadise. 

And  old  Silenus,  shaking  a  green  stick 
Of  lilies,  and  the  wood-gods  in  a  crew 

Came,  blithe,  as  in  the  olive  copses  thick 
Cicadae  are,  drunk  with  the  noonday  dew: 

And  Driope  and  Faunus  followed  quick, 

Teazing  the  god  to  sing  them  something  new. 

Till  in  this  cave  they  found  the  lady  lone, 

Sitting  upon  a  seat  of  emerald  stone. 

And  universal  Pan,  'tis  said,  vv^as  there. 

And  though  none  saw  him  —  through  the  adamant 

Of  the  deep  mountains,  through  the  trackless  air, 
And  through  those  living  spirits,  like  a  want 

He  passed  out  of  his  everlasting  lair 

\Vhf're  the  quick  heart  of  the  irreat  worM  doth  pant, 

And  felt  that  wondrous  lady  all  alcne  — 

And  she  felt  him  upon  her  emerald  throne. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS.  567 

And  every  nymph  of  stream  and  spreading  tree, 

And  every  shepherdess  of  Ocean's  flocks, 
Who  drives  her  white  waves  over  the  green  sea; 

And  Ocean,  with  the  brine  on  l)is  gray  locks. 
And  quaint  Priapus  with  his  company 

All  came,  much  wondering  how  the  enwombed  rocks 
Could  have  brought  forth  so  beautiful  a  birth  : 
Her  love  subdued  their  wonder  and  their  mirth. 

The  herdsmen  and  the  mountain-maidens  came, 
And  the  rude  kings  of  pastoral  Garamant  — 

Their  spirits  shook  within  them,  as  a  flame 
Stirred  by  the  air  under  a  cavern  gaunt : 

Pigmies  and  Polyphemes,  by  many  a  name, 
Centaurs  and  satyrs,  and  such  shapes  as  haunt 

"Wet  clefts  —  and  lumps  neither  alive  nor  dead, 

Dog-headed,  bosom-eyed  and  bird  footed. 

For  she  was  beautiful :  her  beauty  made 

The  bright  world  dim,  and  every  thing  beside 

Seemed  like  the  fleeting  image  of  a  shade  : 
No  thought  of  living  spirit  could  abide, 

Which  to  her  looks  had  ever  been  betrayed, 
On  any  object  in  the  Mrorld  so  wide. 

On  any  hope  within  the  circling  skies. 

But  on  her  form,  and  in  her  inmost  eyes. 

Which  when  the  lady  knew,  she  took  her  spindle 
And  twined  three  threads  of  fleecy  mist,  and  three 

Long  lines  of  light,  such  as  the  dawn  may  kindle 
The  clouds  and  waves  and  mountains  with,  and  she 

As  many  starbeams,  ere  their  lamps  could  dwindle 
In  the  belated  moon,  wound  skilfully  ; 

And  with  these  threads  a  subtle  vail  she  wove  — 

A  shadow  for  the  splendor  of  her  love. 

The  deep  rece.s.ses  of  her  odorous  dwelling 

Were  .stored  with  magic  treasures  —  sounds  of  air, 

Which  had  the  power  all  spirits  of  compelling, 
Folded  in  cells  of  cry.stal  silence  there ; 

Such  as  we  hear  in  youth,  and  think  tlie  feeling 
Will  never  die  :  yet  ere  we  are  aware. 

The  feeling  and  the  sound  are  fled  and  gone, 

And  the  regret  they  leave  remains  alone. 

And  there  lay  visions  swift  and  sweet  and  qaaint, 

Each  in  its  thin  sheath  like  a  chrysalis  ; 
Some  eager  to  burst  Ibrth,  some  weak  and  faint 

With  the  soft  burden  of  intensest  bliss: 
It  is  its  work  to  bear  to  many  a  saint 

Whose  lieart  adores  the  shiine  which  holiest  is. 
Even  Love's —  and  others  white,  green,  gray  and  black, 
And  of  all  shnpes  —  and  pach  was  at  her  beck. 


568  THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS. 

And  odors  in  a  kind  of  aviary 

Of  ever-blooming  Eden-trees  she  kept, 
Clipt  in  a  floating  net,  a  lovesick  fairy 

Had  woven  from  dewbeams  while  the  moon  yet  slept ; 
As  bats  at  the  wired  window  of  a  dairy, 

They  beat  their  vans ;  and  each  was  an  adept. 
When  loosed  and  missioned,  making  wings  of  winds, 
To  stir  sweet  thoughts  or  sad,  in  destined  minds. 

And  liquors  clear  and  sweet,  whose  healthful  might 
Could  medicine  the  sick  soul  to  happy  sleep. 

And  change  eternal  death  into  a  night 

Of  glorious  dreams  ;  or  if  eyes  needs  must  weep. 

Could  make  their  tears  all  wonder  and  delight, 
She  in  her  crystal  vials  did  closely  keep  : 

If  men  could  drink  of  those  clear  vials,  'tis  said 

The  living  were  not  envied  of  the  dead. 

Her  cave  was  stored  with  scrolls  of  strange  device, 
The  works  of  some  Saturnian  Archiraage, 

Which  taught  the  expiations  at  who.se  price 
Men  from  the  gods  miglit  win  that  happy  age 

Too  lightly  lost,  redeeming  native  vice  : 
And  which  might  quench  the  earth  consuming  rage 

Of  gold  and  blood,  till  men  should  live  and  move 

Harmonious  as  the  sacred  stars  above. 

And  how  all  things  that  seem  untamable. 
Not  to  be  checked  and  not  to  be  confined, 

Obey  the  .spells  of  Wisdom's  wizard  skill ; 

Time,  Earth  and  Fire  —  the  Ocean  aud  the  Wind, 

And  all  their  shapes  —  and  man's  imperial  will ; 
And  other  scrolls  whose  writings  did  unbind 

The  inmost  lore  of  Love  :  let  the  profane 

Tremble  to  ask  what  secrets  they  contain. 

And  wondrous  works  of  substances  unknown. 
To  w^hich  the  enchantment  of  her  father's  power 

Had  changed  those  ragged  blocks  of  savage  stone, 
Were  heaped  in  the  rece.sses  of  her  bower  ; 

Carved  lamps  and  chalices,  and  vials  which  .«hone 
In  their  own  golden  beams  —  each  like  a  flower. 

Out  of  w^hose  depth  a  firefly  shakes  his  light 

Under  a  cypress  in  a  starless  night. 

At  first  she  lived  aAone  in  this  wild  home, 
And  her  thoughts  were  each  a  minister, 

Clothing  themselves  or  with  the  ocean-foam, 
Or  with  the  wind,  or  with  the  speed  of  fire. 

To  work  whatever  purposes  might  come 
Into  her  rniud  :  such  power  her  mighty  sire 

Had  girt  them  with,  whether  to  fly  or  run. 

Through  all  the  regions  which  he  shines  upon. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS.  569 

The  ocean-nymphs  and  Hamadryades, 

Oreads  and  Naiads  with  long  weedy  locks, 
Offered  to  do  her  bidding  through  the  seas, 

Under  the  earth,  and  in  the  hollow  rocks, 
And  far  beneath  the  matted  roots  of  trees, 

And  in  the  gnarled  heart  of  stubborn  oaks, 
So  they  might  live  for  ever  in  the  light 
Of  her  sweet  presence — each  a  satellite. 

"  This  may  not  be,"  the  wizard-maid  replied  : 

"  The  fountains  where  the  Naiades  bedew 
Their  shining  hair,  at  length  are  drained  and  dried  ; 

The  solid  oaks  forget  their  strength  and  strew 
Their  latest  leaf  upon  the  mountains  wide  ; 

The  boundless  ocean,  like  a  drop  of  dew 
Will  be  consumed  —  the  stubborn  centre  must 
Be  scattered,  like  a  cloud  of  summer  dust. 

"  And  ye  with  them  will  perish  one  by  one  : 

If  I  must  sigh  to  think  that  this  shall  be, 
If  I  must  weep  when  the  surviving  Sun 

Shall  smile  on  your  decay  —  oh,  ask  not  me 
To  love  you  till  your  littie  race  is  run  ; 

I  can  not  die  as  ye  must :  over  me 
Your  leaves  shall  glance  :  the  streams  in  which  ye  dwell 
Shall  be  my  paths  henceforth,  and  so  farewell !" 

She  .spoke  and  wept :  the  dark  and  azure  well 
Sparkled  beneath  the  shower  of  her  bright  tears, 

And  every  little  circlet  where  they  fell 

Flung  to  the  cavern-roof  inconstant  spheres 

And  intertangled  lines  of  light:  a  knell 
Of  sobbing  voices  came  upon  her  ears 

From  those  departing  forms,  o'er  the  serene 

Of  the  white  streams  and  of  the  forest  green. 

All  day  the  wizard  lady  sat  aloof. 

Spelling  out  scrolls  of  dread  antiquity 
Under  the  cavern's  fountain-lighted  roof; 

Or  broidering  the  [)ictured  poesy 
Of  some  high  tale  upon  her  growing  woof. 

Which  the  sweet  .splendor  of  her  smiles  could  dye 
In  hues  outshining  heaven  —  and  ever  she 
Added  some  grace  to  the  wrought  poesy. 

While  on  her  hearth  lay  blazing  many  a  piece 

Of  .sandal-wood,  rare  gums  and  cinnamon  : 
Men  scarcely  know  how  beautiful  lire  is, 

Each  flame  of  it  is  as  a  precious  stone 
Dissolved  in  ever-moving  light,  and  this 

Belongs  to  each  and  all  who  gaze  upon. 
The  witch  beheld  it  not,  for  in  her  hand 
She  held  a  woof  that  dimmed  the  burning  brand. 


570  THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS. 

This  lady  never  slept,  but  lay  in  trance 
All  night  within  the  fountain  —  as  in  sleep. 

Its  emerald  crags  glowed  in  her  beauty's  glance  : 
Through  the  green  splendor  of  the  water  deep 

She  saw  the  constellations  reel  and  dance 
Like  fireflies  —  and  withal  did  ever  keep 

The  tenor  of  her  contemplations  calm, 

With  open  eyes,  closed  feet  and  folded  palm. 

And  when  the  whirlwinds  and  the  clouds  descended 
From  the  white  pinnacles  of  that  cold  hill, 

She  passed  at  dewfall  to  a  space  extended, 
Where  in  a  lawn  of  flow^ering  asphodel 

Amid  a  wood  of  pines  and  cedars  blended, 
There  yawned  an  inextinguishable  well 

Of  crimson  fire,  full  even  to  the  brim. 

And  overflowing  all  the  margin  trim. 

Within  the  which  she  lay  when  the  fierce  war 
Of  winti-y  winds  shook  that  innocuous  liquor 

In  many  a  mimic  moon  and  bearded  star. 

O'er  woods  and  lawns  :  the  serpent  heard  it  flicker 

In  sleep,  and  dreaming  still,  he  crept  afar  ; 

And  when  the  windless  snow  descended  thicker 

Than  autumn  leaves,  she  watched  it  as  it  came 

Melt  on  the  surface  of  the  level  flame. 

She  had  a  boat  which  some  say  Vulcan  wrought 

For  Venus,  as  the  chariot  of  her  star  ; 
But  it  was  found  too  feeble  to  be  fraught 

With  all  the  ardors  in  that  sjjhere  which  are, 
And  so  she  sold  it,  and  Apollo  bought 

And  gave  it  to  this  daughter  :  from  a  car 
Changed  to  the  fairest  and  the  lightest  boat 
Which  ever  upon  mortal  stream  did  float. 

And  others  say,  that,  when  but  three  hours  old, 
The  first-born  Love  out  of  his  cradle  leapt, 

And  clove  dun  Chaos  with  his  wings  of  gold, 
And  like  an  horticultural  adept. 

Stole  a  strange  seed,  and  wrapt  it  up  in  mould. 
And  sowed  it  in  his  mother's  star,  and  kept 

Watering  it  all  the  summer  with  sweet  dew, 

And  with  his  wings  fanning  it  as  it  grew. 

The  plant  grew  strong  and  green  :  the  snowy  flower 
Fell,  and  the  long  and  gourd-like  fruit  began 

To  turn  the  liglit  and  dew  by  inward  power 
To  its  own  substance  :  woven  tracery  ran 

Of  light  firm  texture,  ribbed  and  branching,  o'er 
The  solid  rind,  like  a  leaf's  veined  fan. 

Of  which  Love  scooped  this  boat,  and  with  soft  motion 

Piloted  it  round  the  circumfluous  ocean. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS.  571 

This  boat  she  moored  upon  her  fount,  and  lit 

A  living  spirit  within  all  its  frame, 
Breathing  the  soul  of  swiftness  into  it. 

Couched  on  the  fountain  like  a  panther  tame, 
One  of  the  twain  at  Evan's  feet  that  sit ; 

Or  as  on  Vesta's  sceptre  a  swift  flame, 
Or  on  bUnd  Homer's  heart  a  wingdd  thought  — 
In  joyous  expectation  lay  the  boat. 

Then  by  strange  art  she  kneaded  fire  and  snow 

Together,  tempering  the  repugnant  mass 
With  liquid  love  :  all  things  together  grow 

Through  which  the  harmony  of  love  can  pass ; 
And  a  fair  shape  out  of  her  hands  did  flow 

A  living  image,  which  did  far  surpass 
In  beauty  that  bright  shape  of  vital  stone 
Which  drew  the  heart  out  of  Pygmalion. 

A  sexless  thing  it  was,  and  in  its  growth 

It  seemed  to  have  developed  no  defect 
Of  either  sex,  yet  all  the  grace  of  both : 

In  gentleness  and  strength  its  limbs  were  decked ; 
The  bosom  lightly  swelled  with  its  full  youth, 

The  countenance  was  such  as  might  select 
Some  artist  that  his  skill  should  never  die, 
Imaging  forth  such  perfect  purity. 

From  its  smooth  shoulders  hung  two  rapid  wings, 

Fit  to  have  borne  it  to  the  seventh  sphere, 
Tipped  with  the  speed  of  liquid  lightnings, 

Dyed  in  the  ardors  of  the  atmosphere  : 
She  led  her  creature  to  the  boiling  springs 

Where  the  light  boat  was  moored,  and  said,  "  Sit  here  !" 
And  pointed  to  the  prow,  and  took  her  seat 
Beside  the  rudder  with  opposing  feet. 

And  down  the  streams  which  clove  those  mountains  vast 

Around  their  inland  islets,  and  amid 
The  panther-peopled  forests,  whose  .shade  cast 

Darkness  and  odors,  and  a  pleasure  hid 
In  melanchol}'  gloom,  the  pinnace  passed  ; 

By  many  a  star-surrounded  pyramid 
Of  icy  crag  cleaving  the  purple  sky. 
And  caverns  yawning  round  unfathomably. 

The  silver  moon  into  that  winding  defl. 
With  slanted  gleam  athwart  the  forest-tops, 

Tempered  like  golden  evening,  feebly  fell  ; 

A  green  and  glowing  li^'ht,  like  that  which  drops 

From  folded  lilies  in  which  glow-worms  dwell 
When  Earth  over  her  face  night's  mantle  wraps: 

Between  the  bevered  mountains  lay  on  high 

Over  tlie  stream,  a  narrow  rift  of  sky. 


572  THE    WITCH    OF   ATLAS. 

And  ever  as  she  went,  the  image  lay 

With  folded  wings  and  unawakened  eyes 

And  o'er  its  gentle  countenance  did  play 
The  busy  dreams,  as  thick  as  summer  flies, 

Chasing  the  rapid  smiles  that  would  not  stay, 
And  drinking  the  warm  tears,  and  the  sweet  sighs 

Inhaling,  which,  with  busy  murmur  vain. 

They  had  aroused  from  that  full  heart  and  brain. 

And  ever  down  the  prone  vale,  like  a  cloud 
Upon  a  stream  of  wind,  the  pinnace  went : 

Now^  lingering  on  the  pools,  in  which  abode 
The  calm  and  darkness  of  the  deep  content 

In  which  they  paused  ;  now  o'er  the  shallow  road 
Of  white  and  dancing  waters,  all  besprent 

With  sand  and  polished  pebbles  :  mortal  boat 

In  such  a  shallow  rapid  could  not  float. 

And  down  the  earthquaking  cataracts  which  shiver 
Their  snow-like  waters  into  golden  air. 

Or  under  chasms  unfathomable  ever 

Sepulchre  them,  till  in  their  rage  they  tear 

A  subterranean  portal  for  the  river. 

It  fled  :  the  circling  sunbows  did  upbear 

Its  1^11  down  the  hoar  precipice  of  spray, 

Lighting  it  far  upon  its  lampless  way. 

And  when  the  wizard  lady  would  ascend 
The  labyrinths  of  some  many-winding  vale, 

Which  to  the  inmost  mountain  upward  tend  — 
She  called  '•  Hermaphroditus  !"  and  the  pale 

And  heavy  hue  which  slumber  could  extend 
Over  its  lips  and  eyes,  as  on  the  gale 

A  rapid  shadow  from  a  slope  of  grass, 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  stream  did  pass. 

And  it  unfurled  its  heaven-colored  pinions, 
With  stars  of  fire  spotting  the  stream  below  ; 

And  from  above  into  the  Sun's  dominions 
Flinging  a  glory,  like  the  golden  glow 

In  which  Spring  clothes  her  emerald-winged  minions, 
All  interwoven  with  fine  feathery  snow 

And  moonlight  splendor  of  intensest  rime. 

With  which  frost  paints  the  pines  in  winter  time. 

And  then  it  winnowed  the  Elysian  air 
Which  ever  hung  about  that  lady  bright, 

With  its  ethereal  vans  —  and  speeding  there. 
Like  a  star  up  the  torrent  of  the  night. 

Or  a  swift  eagle  in  the  morning  glare 
Breasting  the  whirlwind  with  impetuous  flight; 

The  pinnace,  oared  by  those  enchanted  wings. 

Clove  the  fierce  streams  toward  their  upper  springs. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS.  573 

The  water  flashed  like  sunlight  by  the  prow 
Of  a  noon- wandering  meteor  flung  to  heaven  : 

The  still  air  seemed  as  if  its  waves  did  flow 

In  tempest  down  the  mountains  —  loosely  driven 

The  lady's  radiant  hair  streamed  to  and  fro  : 
Beneath,  the  billows  having  vainly  striven 

Indignant  and  impetuous,  roared  to  feel 

The  swift  and  steady  motion  of  the  keel. 

Oi*,  when  the  weary  moon  was  in  the  wane, 

Or  in  the  noon  of  interlunar  night. 
The  lady-witch  in  visions  could  not  chain 

Her  spirit ;  but  sailed  forth  under  the  light 
Of  shooting  stars,  and  bade  extend  amain 

His  storm-outspeeding  wrings,  th'  Hermaphrodite  ; 
She  to  the  Austral  waters  took  her  w^ay, 
Beyond  the  fabulous  Thamondocona. 

Where,  like  a  meadow  which  no  sythe  has  shaven, 
Which  rain  could  never  bend,  or  whirl-blast  shake, 

With  the  antarctic  constellations  paven, 

Canoijus  and  his  crew,  lay  th'  Austral  lake  — 

There  she  would  build  herself  a  windless  haven 
Out  of  the  clouds  who.'^e  moving  turrets  make 

The  bastions  of  the  storm,  when  through  the  sky 

The  spirits  of  the  tempest  thundered  by. 

A  haven,  beneath  whose  translucent  floor 
The  tremulous  stars  sparkled  unfathomably, 

And  around  which,  the  .solid  vapors  hoar, 
Ba.sed  on  the  level  waters,  to  the  sky 

Lifted  their  dreadful  crags  ;  and  like  a  shore 
Of  wintry  mountains,  inaccessibly 

Hemmed  in  with  rifts  and  precipices  gray, 

And  hanging  crags,  many  a  cove  and  bay. 

And  while  the  outer  lake  beneath  the  lash 

Of  the  winds'  scourge,  foamed  like  a  wounded  thing ; 

And  the  incessant  hail  with  stony  clash 

Plowed  up  the  waters,  and  the  flagging  wing 

Of  the  roused  cormorant  in  the  lightning-flash 
Looked  like  the  wreck  of  some  wind-wandering 

Fragment  of  inkj'^  thunder-smoke  —  this  haven 

Was  as  a  gem  to  copy  heaven  engraven. 

On  which  that  lady  played  her  many  pranks, 

Circling  the  image  of  a  shooting  star. 
Even  as  a  tiger  on  Hyda.spes'  banks 

Outspeeds  the  antelopes  which  speediest  are, 
In  her  light  boat ;  and  many  quips  and  cranks 

She  played  upon  the  water  ;  till  the  car 
Of  the  late  moon,  like  a  sick  matron  wan, 
To  journey  from  the  misty  east  began. 


574  THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS. 

And  then  she  called  out  of  the  hollow  turrets 

Of  those  high  clouds,  white,  golden  and  vermilion, 

The  armies  of  her  ministering  spirits  — 
In  mighty  legions  million  after  million 

They  came,  each  troop  emblazoning  its  merits 
On  meteor  flags  :  and  many  a  proud  pavilion, 

Of  the  intertexture  of  the  atmosphere, 

They  pitched  upon  the  plain  of  the  calm  mere. 

They  framed  the  imperial  tent  of  their  great  queen 

Of  woven  exhalations,  underlaid 
With  lambent  lightning-fire,  as  may  be  seen 

A  dome  of  thin  and  open  ivory  inlaid 
With  crimson  silk  —  cressets  from  the  serene 

Hung  there,  and  on  the  water  for  her  tread, 
A  tapestry  of  fleece  like  mist  was  strewn, 
Dyed  in  the  beams  of  the  ascending  moon. 

And  on  a  throne  o'erlaid  with  starlight,  caught 
Upon  those  wandering  isles  of  aery  dew, 

Which  highest  shoals  of  mountain  shipwreck  not, 
She  sate,  and  heard  all  that  had  happened  new 

Between  the  earth  and  moon  since  they  had  brought 
The  last  intelligence  :  and  now  she  grew 

Pale  as  that  moon,  lost  in  the  watery  night ; 

And  now  she  wept,  and  now  she  laughed  outright. 

These  were  tame  pleasures.     She  would  often  climb 
The  steepest  ladder  of  the  crudded  rack 

Up  to  some  beaked  cape  of  cloud  sublime. 
And  hke  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back 

Ride  singing  through  the  shoreless  air.     Oft  time 
Following  the  serpent  lightning's  winding  track, 

She  ran  upon  the  platforms  of  the  wind. 

And  laughed  to  hear  the  fireballs  roar  behind. 

And  sometimes  to  those  streams  of  upper  air, 
Which  whirl  the  earth  in  its  diurnal  round, 

She  would  ascend,  and  win  the  spirits  there 
To  let  her  join  their  chorus.     Mortals  found 

That  on  those  days  the  sky  was  calm  and  fair, 
And  mystic  snatches  of  harmonious  sound 

Wandered  upon  the  earth  where'er  she  passed, 

And  happy  thoughts  of  hope,  too  sweet  to  last. 

But  her  choice  sport  was,  in  the  hours  of  sleep, 
To  ghde  adown  old  Nilus,  when  he  threads 

Egypt  and  Ethiopia,  from  the  steep 
Of  utmost  Axume.  until  he  spreads. 

Like  a  calm  flock  of  silver-fleeced  sheep. 
His  waters  on  the  plain  :  and  crested  heads 

Of  cities  and  proud  temples  gleam  amid, 

And  many  a  vapor-belted  pyramid. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS.  57'5 

By  Mceris  and  Mareotid  lakes, 

Strewn  with  faint  blooms  like  bridal-chamber  floors  ; 
Where  naked  boys  bridling  tame  water-snakes, 

Or  charioteering  ghastly  alligators, 
Had  left  on  the  sweet  waters  mighty  wakes 

Of  those  huge  forms  :  w^ithin  the  brazen  doors 
Of  the  great  Labyrinth  slept  both  boy  and  beast, 
Tired  with  the  pomp  of  their  Osirian  feast. 

And  where  within  the  surface  of  the  river 

The  shadows  of  the  massy  temples  lie. 
And  never  are  erased  —  but  tremble  ever 

Like  things  which  every  cloud  can  doom  to  die. 
Through  lotus- paven  canals,  and  wheresoever 

The  works  of  man  pierced  that  serenest  sky 
With  tombs  and  towers  and  fane,  'twas  her  delight 
To  wander  in  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

With  motion  like  the  spirit  of  that  wind 

Whose  Boft  step  deepens  slumber,  her  light  feet 

Passed  through  the  peopled  haunts  of  human  kind, 
Scattering  sweet  visions  from  her  presence  sweet, 

Through  fane  and  palace-court  and  labyrinth  mined 
With  many  a  dark  and  subterranean  street 

Under  the  Nile  :  through  chambers  high  and  deep 

She  passed,  observing  mortals  in  their  sleep. 

A  pleasure  sweet  doubtless  it  was  to  see 

Mortals  subdued  in  all  the  shapes  of  sleep. 
Here  lay  two  sister-twins  in  infancy  ; 

There  a  lone  youth  who  in  his  dreams  did  weep  ; 
Within,  two  lovers  linked  innocently 

In  their  loose  locks  which  over  both  did  creep 
Like  ivy  from  one  stem  ;  and  there  lay  calm. 
Old  age  with  snow-bright  hair  and  folded  palm. 

But  other  troubled  forms  of  sleep  she  saw, 

Not  to  be  mirrored  in  a  holy  song. 
Distortions  foul  of  supernatural  awe. 

And  pale  imaginings  of  visioned  w^rong, 
And  all  the  code  of  custom's  lawless  law 

Written  upon  the  brows  of  old  and  young : 
"  This,"  said  the  wizard  maiden,  "  is  the  strife 
Which  stirs  the  liquid  surface  of  man's  life." 

And  little  did  the  sight  disturb  her  soul — 

We,  the  weak  mariners  of  that  wide  lake 
Where'er  its  shores  extend  or  billows  roll, 

Our  course  unpiloted  and  starless  make 
O'er  its  wide  surface  to  an  unknown  goal  — 

But  she  in  the  calm  depths  her  way  could  take. 
Where  in  bright  bowers  immortal  forms  abide. 
Beneath  the  weltering  of  the  restless  tide. 


576  THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS. 

And  she  saw  princes  conched  under  the  glow 
Of  sun-like  gems  ;  and  round  each  temple-court 

In  dormitories  ranged,  row  after  ro^v, 

She  saw  the  priests  asleep,  all  of  one  sort, 

Tor  all  were  educated  to  be  so. 

The  peasants  in  their  huts,  and  in  the  port 

The  sailors  she  saw  cradled  on  the  waves, 

And  the  dead  lulled  w^iihin  their  dreamless  graves. 

And  all  the  forms  in  which  those  spirits  lay, 
Were  to  her  sight  like  the  diaphanous 

Vails,  in  which  those  sweet  ladies  oft  aiTay 

Their  delicate  limbs,  who  would  conceal  from  us 

Only  their  scorn  of  all  concealment :  they 
Move  in  the  light  of  their  own  beauty  thus. 

But  these  and  all  now  lay  with  sleep  upon  them, 

And  little  thought  a  witch  was  looking  on  them. 

She  all  those  human  figures  breathing  there 
Beheld  as  living  spirits  —  to  her  eyes 

The  naked  beauty  of  the  soul  lay  bare. 
And  often  through  a  rude  and  worn  di.sguise 

She  saw  the  inner  form  most  bright  and  fair — 
And  then,  she  had  a  charm  of  strange  device 

Which  murmured  on  mute  hps  with  tender  tone, 

Could  make  that  spirit  mingle  with  her  own. 

Alas,  Aurora  !  what  w^ouldst  thou  have  given 
For  such  a  charm,  when  Tithon  became  gray  ? 

Or  how  much,  Venus,  of  thy  silver  heaven 
Wouldst  thou  have  yielded,  ere  Proserpina 

Had  half  (oh  !  why  not  all  ?)  the  debt  forgiven 
Which  dear  Adonis  had  been  doomed  to  pay. 

To  any  witch  who  would  have  taught  you  it  ? 

The  Heliad  doth  not  know^  its  value  yet. 

'Tis  said  in  after  times  her  spirit  free 

Knew  what  love  was,  and  felt  itself  alone — • 

But  holy  Dian  could  not  chaster  be 
Before  she  stooped  to  kiss  Endymion, 

Than  now  this  lady  —  like  a  sexless  bee 

Tasting  all  blossoms  and  confined  to  none  — 

Among  those  mortal  forms,  the  wizard-maidea 

Passed  with  an  eye  serene  and  heart  unladen. 

To  those  she  saw  most  beautiful,  she  gave 

Strange  panacea  in  a  cry.stal  bowl. 
They  drank  in  their  deep  sleep  of  that  sweet  wave. 

And  lived  thenceforth  as  if  some  control, 
Mightier  than  life,  were  in  them  ;  and  the  grave 

Of  such,  when  death  oppressed  the  weary  soul, 
Was  a  green  and  over-arching  bower 
Lit  by  the  gems  of  many  a  starry  flower. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS.  577 

For  on  the  night  that  they  were  buried,  she 
Restored  the  embalmer's  ruining,  aud  shook 

The  light  out  of  the  funeral  lamps,  to  be 
A  mimic  day  within  that  deathy  nook  ; 

And  she  unwound  the  woven  imagery 

Of  second  childhood's  swaddling  bands,  and  took 

The  coffin,  its  last  cradle,  from  its  niche, 

And  threw  it  with  contempt  into  a  ditch. 

And  there  the  body  lay,  age  after  age, 
Mute,  breathing,  beating,  warm  and  undecaying, 

Like  one  asleep  in  a  green  hermitage. 
With  gentle  sleep  about  its  eyelids  playing. 

And  living  in  its  dreams  beyond  the  rage 

Of  death  or  life  ;  while  they  were  still  arraying 

In  liveries  ever  new  the  rapid,  blind. 

And  fleeting  generations  of  mankind. 

And  she  would  write  strange  dreams  upon  the  brain 
Of  those  who  were  less  beautiful,  and  make 

All  harsh  and  crooked  purpose.s  more  vain 
Than  in  the  desert  is  the  serpent's  wake 

Which  the  sand  covers,  all  his  evil  gain 

The  miser  in  such  dreams  would  rise  and  .shake 

Into  a  beggar's  lap  ;  —  the  lying  scribe 

Would  his  own  lies  betray  without  a  bribe. 

The  priests  would  write  an  explanation  full, 

Translating  hieroglyphics  into  Greek, 
How  the  god  Apis  really  was  a  bull, 

And  nothing  more  ;  and  bid  the  herald  stick 
The  same  against  the  temple  doors,  and  pull 

The  old  cant  down  ;  they  licensed  all  to  speak 
Whate'er  they  thought  of  hawks,  and  cats,  and  geese. 
By  pastoral  letters  to  each  diocese. 

The  king  would  dress  an  ape  up  in  his  crown 
And  robes,  and  seat  him  on  his  glorious  seat, 

And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  sunlike  throne 
Would  place  a  gaudy  mock-bird  to  repeat 

The  chatterings  of  the  monkey.     Every  one 
Of  the  prone  courtiers  crawled  to  kiss  the  feet 

Of  their  great  Emperor  when  the  morning  came ; 

And  kissed  —  alas,  how  many  kiss  the  same  ! 

The  soldiers  dreamed  that  they  were  blacksmiths,  and 

Walked  out  of  quarters  in  somnambulism. 
Round  the  red  anvils  you  might  see  them  stand 

Like  Cyclopses  in  Vulcan's  sooty  abysm, 
Beating  their  swords  to  ploughshares  ;  in  a  band 

The  jailers  sent  those  of  the  liberal  .schism 
Free  through  the  streets  of  Memphis ;  much,  I  wis, 
To  the  annoyance  of  King  Amasis. 
37 


578  ODE    TO    NAPLES. 

And  timid  lovers  who  had  been  so  coy, 

They  hardly  knew  whether  they  loved  or  not, 

Would  rise  out  of  their  rest,  and  take  s^veet  joy, 
To  the  fulfilment  of  their  inmost  thought : 

And  when  next  day  the  maiden  and  the  boy 
Met  one  another,  both,  like  sinners  caught. 

Blushed  at  the  thing  which  each  believed  was  done 

Only  in  fancy  —  till  the  tenth  moon  shone  ; 

And  then  the  Witch  v^^ould  let  them  take  no  ill : 
Of  many  thousand  schemes  which  lovers  find 

The  Witch  found  one,  and  so  they  took  their  fill 
Of  happiness  in  marriage  vs'arm  and  kind. 

Friends,  who,  by  practice  of  some  envious  skill, 
Were  torn  apart,  a  wide  wound,  mind  from  mind 

She  did  unite  again  with  visions  clear 

Of  deep  affection  and  of  truth  sincere. 

These  were  the  pranks  she  played  among  the  cities 
Of  mortal  men.  and  w^hat  she  did  to  sprites 

And  gods,  entangling  them  in  her  sweet  ditties 
To  do  her  will,  and  show  their  subtle  slights, 

I  will  declare  another  time  ;  for  it  is 

A  tale  more  fit  for  the  weird  winter  nights — 

Than  for  these  garish  summer  days,  when  we 

Scarcely  believe  much  more  than  we  can  see. 


ODE  TO  NAPLES* 

EPODE    I.   a. 

I  STOOD  within  the  city  disinterred  ;t 

And  heard  the  autumnal  leaves  like  light  footfalls 
Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets  ;  and  heard 

The  Mountain's  slumberous  voice  at  intervals 
Thrill  through  those  roofless  halls  ; 
The  oracular  thunder  penetrating  shook 

The  listening  soul  in  my  suspended  blood  ; 
I  felt  that  earth  out  of  her  deep  heart  spoke  — 

I  felt,  but  heard  not :  —  through  white  columns  glowed 
The  isle-sustaining  ocean  flood, 
A  plain  of  light  between  two  heavens  of  azure : 

Around  me  gleamed  many  a  bright  sepulchre 
Of  whose  pure  beauty.  Time,  as  if  his  pleasure 

Were  to  spare  Death,  had  never  made  erasure  ; 

*  The  author  has  connected  many  recollections  of  hU  visit  to  Pompeii  and  Bai«  with 
the  enthusiasm  excited  by  the  intelligence  of  the  proclamation  of  a  constitutional  govem- 
ment  at  Naples.  This  has  given  a  tinge  of  picturesque  and  descriptive  imagery  to  the 
introductory  epodes  which  depicture  the  scenes  and  some  of  the  majestic  feeUngs  per 
manently  connected  with  the  scene  of  this  animating  event.  —  Author's  note. 

t  Pompeii. 


ODE    TO    NAPLES.  579 

But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 
As  in  the  sculptor's  thought ;  and  there 
The  wreaths  of  stony  myrtle,  ivy  and  pine, 

Like  winter  leaves  o'ergrow^n  by  moulded  snow, 
Seemed  only  not  to  move  and  grow 
Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air 

"Weighed  on  their  life  ;  even  as  the  Power  divine, 
Which  then  lulled  all  things,  brooded  upon  mine. 

EPODK    II.    a. 

Then  gentle  winds  arose, 

With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of  wild  ^olian  sound  and  mountain  odor  keen  ; 

And  where  the  Baian  ocean 

Welters  with  air-like  motion, 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green, 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple  caves, 
Even  as  the  ever-stormless  atmosphere 
Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm, 
It  bore  me  like  an  angel,  o'er  the  waves 

Of  sunlight,  whose  swift  pinnace  of  dewy  air 

No  storm  can  overwhelm  ; 

I  sailed  where  ever  flows 

Under  the  calm  Serene 

A  spirit  of  deep  emotion. 

From  the  unknown  graves 

Of  the  dead  kings  of  Melody.* 
Shadowy  Aornos  darkened  o'er  the  helm 
The  horizontal  ether  ;  heaven  stripped  bare 
Its  depths  over  Elysium,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow  ; 
From  that  Typha3an  mount,  Inarime, 
There  streamed  a  sunlike  vapor,  like  the  standard 

Of  some  ethereal  host ; 

While  from  all  the  coast, 
Louder  and  louder,  gathering  round,  there  wandered 
Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 
Prophesyings  which  grew  articulate  : 
They  seize  me  —  I  must  speak  them  —  be  they  fate  !        '     ^ 

STROPHE   a.    I.  V 

Naples  !  thou  heart  of  men  which  ever  pantest 

Naked,  beneath  the  lidless  eye  of  heaven ! 
Elysian  city,  which  to  calm  enchantest 

The  mutinous  air  and  sea  !  they  round  thee,  even 
As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven  ! 
Metropolis  of  a  ruined  paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and  yet  but  half-regained  ! 
Bright  altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice. 

Which  armed  Victory  offers  up  upetained 

To  Love,  the  flower-enchained  ! 

*  Homer  and  Viigil. 


580  ODE    TO    NAPLES. 

Thou  which  wert  once,  and  then  didst  cease  to  be, 
Now  art,  and  henceforth  ever  shalt  be,  free 
If  hope  and  truth  and  justice  can  avail. 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 


Thou  youngest  giant  birth, 

"Which  from  the  groaning  earth 
Leap'st,  clothed  in  armor  of  impenetrable  scale  ! 

Last  of  the  intercessors 

Who  'gainst  the  crowned  transgressors 
Pleadest  before  God's  love  !  Arrayed  in  Wisdom's  mail, 

Wave  thy  lightning  lance  in  mirth ; 

Nor  let  thy  high  heart  fail. 
Though  from  their  hundred  gates  the  leagued  oppressors, 

With  hurried  legions  move  ! 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHK    a. 

What  though  Cimmerian  anarchs  dare  blaspheme 

Freedom  and  thee  ?  thy  shield  is  as  a  mirror 
To  make  their  blind  slaves  see,  and  with  fierce  gleam 

To  turn  his  hungry  sword  upon  the  wearer, 
A  new  Acteon's  error 
Shall  theirs  have  been  —  devoured  by  their  own  hounds  ! 

Be  thou  like  the  imperial  basilisk, 
Killing  thy  foe  with  unapparent  wounds  ! 

Gaze  on  Oppression,  till  at  that  dread  risk 

Aghast  she  pass  from  the  earth's  disk : 
Fear  not,  but  gaze  —  for  freemen  mightier  grow, 
And  slaves  more  feeble,  gazing  on  their  foe. 

If  hope  and  truth  and  justice  may  avail, 

Thou  shalt  be  great.  —  All  hail  ! 

ANTISTROPHE   0.    2. 

From  Freedom's  form  divine, 

From  Nature's  inmost  shrine. 
Strip  every  impious  gawd,  rend  Error  vail  by  vail : 

O'er  Ruin  desolate, 

O'er  Falsehood's  fallen  state, 
Sit  thou  sublime,  unawed  ;  be  the  Destroyer  pale  ! 

And  equal  laws  be  thine. 

And  winged  words  let  sail. 
Freighted  with  truth  even  from  the  throne  of  God : 

That  wealth,  surviving  fate, 

Be  thine.  —  All  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE    a.    y. 

Didst  thou  not  start  to  hear  Spain's  thrilling  paean 

From  land  to  land  reechoed  solemnly. 
Till  silence  became  music  ?     From  the  .^aean* 
To  the  cold  Alps,  eternal  Italy 
Starts  to  hear  thine  !     The  sea 

*  ^iPa,  the  island  of  Circe 


ODE    TO    NAPLES.  581 

Which  paves  the  desert  streets  of  Venice,  laughs 

In  light  and  music  :  widowed  Genoa  w^an, 
By  moonlight  spells  ancestral  epitaphs. 

Murmuring,  '•  Where  is  Doria  1"    Fair  Milan, 
Within  whose  veins  long  ran 
The  viper's*  palsying  venom,  lifts  her  heel 
To  hruise  his  head.     The  signal  and  the  seal 

(If  hope  and  truth  and  justice  can  avail) 

Art  thou  of  all  these  hopes.  —  O  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE    P.    y. 

Florence  !  beneath  the  sun, 

Of  cities  fairest  one, 
Blushes  within  her  bower  for  Freedom's  expectation  : 

From  eyes  of  quenchless  hope 

Rome  tears  the  priestly  cope. 
As  ruling  once  by  power,  so  now  by  admiration, 

An  athletae  stripped  to  lun 

From  a  remoter  station 
For  the  high  prize  lost  on  Philippi's  shore  : 
As  then  hope,  truth  and  justice  did  avail, 
So  now  may  fraud  and  wrong  !  —  O  hail ! 

EPODfi   I,  /?• 

Hear  ye  the  march  as  of  the  earth-born  Forms 

Arrayed  against  the  ever-living  gods  ? 
The  crash  and  darkness  of  a  thousand  storms 
Bursting  their  inaccessible  abodes 

Of  crags  and  thunder-clouds  ? 
See  ye  the  banners  blazoned  to  the  day. 

Inwrought  with  emblems  of  barbaric  pride  ? 
Dissonant  threats  kill  Silence  far  away, 

The  serene  heaven  which  wraps  our  Eden  wide 
With  iron  light  is  dyed, 
The  anarchs  of  the  North  lead  forth  their  legions 

Like  Chaos  o'er  creation,  uncreating  ; 
A  hundred  tribes  nourished  on  strange  religions 
And  lawless  slaveries  —  down  the  aerial  regions 
Of  the  white  Alps,  desolating 
Famished  wolves  that  bide  no  waiting, 
Blotting  the  glowing  footsteps  of  old  Glory, 
Trampling  our  columned  cities  into  dust, 

Their  dull  and  savage  lust 
On  Beauty's  corse  to  sickness  satiating — 
They  come  !    The  fields  they  tread  look  black  and  hoary 
With  tire  :  from  their  red  feet  the  streams  run  goiy  ! 

EPODE   II.  /?. 

Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love  ! 
Which  rulest  and  dost  move 

*  The  Tiper  was  the  annorial  device  of  the  VUconti,  tyrants  of  Milan. 


582  AUTUMN. 

All  things  which  live  and  are,  within  the  Italian  shore ; 

Who  spreadest  heaven  around  it, 

Whose  woods,  rocks,  waves,  surround  it; 
Who  sittest  in  thy  star,  o'er  Ocean's  western  floor, 
Spirit  of  Beauty  !  at  whose  soft  command 
The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil  its  foison 

From  the  earth's  bosom  chili ; 
O  bid  those  beams  be  each  a  blinding  brand 
Of  lightning  !  bid  those  showers  be  dews  of  poison ! 

Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kill ! 

Bid  thy  bright  heaven  above, 

While  light  and  darkness  bound  it. 

Be  their  tomb  who  planned 

To  make  it  ours  and  thine  ! 
Or,  with  thine  harmonizing  ardors  fill 
And  raise  thy  sons,  as  o'er  the  prone  horizon 
Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with  fire  — 
Be  man's  high  hope  and  unextinct  desire 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine  ! 
Then  clouds  from  sunbeams,  antelopes  from  leopards, 

And  frowns  and  fears  from  thee. 

Would  not  more  swiftly  flee 
Than  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ausonian  shepherds. — 
Whatever,  spirit,  from  thy  starry  shrine 
Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest,  oh  let  be 
This  city  of  thy  worship,  ever  free  ! 


AUTUMN:  A  DIRGE. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are  dying, 

And  the  Year 
On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves  dead, 
Is  lying. 

Come,  Months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May, 

In  your  saddest  array  ; 

Follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  Year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipped  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  sweUing,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  Year ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each  gone 
To  his  dwelling : 

Come,  Months,  come  away  ; 

Put  on  white,  black  and  gray. 

Let  your  fight  sisters  play  — 

Ye,  follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  Year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 


DEATH.  683 


AN  ALLEGORY. 


A  PORTAL  as  of  shadowy  adamant 

Stands  yawning  on  the  highway  of  the  life 
Which  we  all  tread  a  cavern  huge  and  gaunt ; 

Around  it  rages  an  unceasing  strife 
Of  shadows,  like  the  restless  clouds  that  haunt 
The  gap  of  some  cleft  mountain,  lifted  high 
Into  the  whirlwinds  of  the  upper  sky. 

And  many  passed  it  by  with  careless  tread, 
Not  knowing  that  a  shadowy  [  ] 

Tracks  every  traveler  even  to  where  the  dead 
Wait  peacefully  for  their  companion  new ; 

But  others,  by  more  curious  humor  led. 
Pause  to  examine  —  these  are  very  few, 

And  they  learn  little  there,  except  to  know 

That  shadows  follow  them  where'er  they  go. 


THE  WANING  MOON. 

And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale, 
Who  totters  forth,  wrapped  in  a  gauzy  vail, 
Out  of  her  chamber,  led  by  the  insane 
And  feeble  w^anderings  of  her  fading  brain, 
The  moon  arose  up  in  the  murky  earth, 
A  white  and  shapeless  mass. 


DEATH. 

Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there. 
Death  is  busy  everywhere. 
All  around,  within,  beneath, 
Above,  is  death  —  and  we  are  death. 

Death  has  set  his  mark  and  seal 
On  all  we  are  and  all  we  feel. 
On  all  we  know  and  all  we  fear, 

First  our  pleasures  die  —  and  then 
Our  hopes,  and  then  our  fears  —  and  when 
These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due, 
Dust  claims  dust  —  and  we  die  too. 

All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish, 
Like  ourselves,  must  fade  and  perish ; 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot  — 
Love  itself  would,  did  they  not. 


584  SUMMER    AND    WINTER. 


LIBERTY. 

The  fiery  motintains  answer  each  other  : 
Their  thunderings  are  echoed  from  zone  to  zone  ; 
The  tempestuous  oceans  awake  one  another, 
And  the  ice-rocks  are  shaken  round  winter's  zone. 
When  the  clarion  of  the  typhoon  is  blown. 

% 
From  a  single  cloud  the  lightning  flashes,  W 

While  a  thousand  isles  are  illumined  around, 
Earthquake  is  trampling  one  city  to  ashes, 
A  hundred  are  shuddering  and  tottering  ;  the  sound 
Is  bellowing  underground. 

But  keener  thy  gaze  than  the  lightning's  glare, 
And  swifter  thy  step  than  the  earthquake's  tramp  ; 
Thou  deafenest  the  rage  of  the  ocean  ;  thy  stare 
Makes  Wind  the  volcanoes  ;  the  sun's  bright  lamp 
To  thine  is  a  fen-fire  damp. 

From  billow  and  mountain  and  exhalation 
The  sunlight  is  darted  through  vapor  and  blast ; 
From  spirit  to  spirit,  from  nation  to  nation, 
From  city  to  hamlet  thy  dawning  is  cast  — 
And  tyrants  and  slaves  are  like  shadows  of  night 
In  the  van  of  the  morning  light. 


SUMMER  AND  WINTER. 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon, 
Toward  the  end  of  the  sunny  month  of  June, 
When  the  north  wind  congregates  in  crowds 
The  floating  mountains  of  the  silver  clouds 
From  the  horizon  —  and  the  stainless  sky 
Opens  beyond  them  like  eternity. 
All  things  rejoiced  beneath  the  sun  —  the  weeds, 
The  river  and  the  cornfields  and  the  reeds : 
The  willow-leaves  that  glanced  in  the  light  breeze, 
And  the  firm  foliage  of  the  larger  trees. 


It  was  a  winter  such  as  when  birds  die 
In  the  deep  forests  ;  and  the  fishes  lie 
Stiffened  in  the  translucent  ice,  which  makes 
Even  the  mud  and  slime  of  the  warm  lakes 
A  wrinkled  clod,  as  hard  as  brick  ;  and  when, 
Among  their  children,  comfortable  men 
Gather  about  great  fires,  and  yet  feel  cold  : 
Alas  !  then  for  the  homeless  beggar  old  ! 


THE    TOWER    OF    FAMINE.  585 


THE  WORLD'S  WANDBEER8. 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 

Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Weary  wind,  w^ho  w^anderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest, 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  ? 


TO  THE  MOON. 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  chmbing  heaven,  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth  — 
And  ever-changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  ? 


THE  TOWER  OF  FAMINE.* 

Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city, 

Which  was  the  cradle,  and  i.s  now  the  grave 

Of  an  extinguished  people  —  so  that  Pity 

Weeps  o'er  the  shipwrecks  of  Oblivion's  wave  — 

There  stands  the  Tower  of  Famine.     It  is  built 

Upon  some  prison-homes,  who.sc  dwellers  rave 

For  bread  and  gold  and  blood  :  pain,  linked  to  guilt. 

Agitates  the  light  flame  of  their  hours, 

Until  its  vital  oil  is  spent  or  spilt :  ' 

There  stands  the  pile,  a  tower  auiid  the  towers 

And  sacred  domes  ;  each  marble- ribbed  roof. 

The  brazen-gated  temples,  and  the  bowers 

Of  solitary  wealth  !  the  tempest  jn-oof 

*  At  Pisa  there  still  exists  the  prison  of  Ugolino,  which  goes  by  the  name  of  Ln  Tone 
della  Fame :'  in  the  a^oining  building  the  galiey-slave.i  are  coartned.  It  is  situated  near 
the  Ponte  al  Maie  on  the  Arno. 


/0^ 


586  LINES    TO    A    REVIEWER. 

Pavilions  of  the  dark  Italian  air 

Are  by  its  presence  dimmed  —  they  stand  aloof, 

And  are  withdrawn  —  so  that  the  world  is  bare, 

As  if  a  spectre,  wrapped  in  shapeless  terror, 

Amid  a  company  of  ladies  fair 

Should  glide  and  glow,  till  it  became  a  mirror 

Of  all  their  beauty,  and  their  hair  and  hue, 

The  life  of  their  sweet  eyes,  with  all  its  error. 

Should  be  absorbed  till  they  to  marble  grew. 


SONNET. 

Ye  hasten  to  the  dead  !     What  seek  ye  there. 

Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 

Of  the  idle  brain,  which  the  world's  livery  wear  ? 

O  thou  quick  Heart,  which  pantest  to  possess 

All  that  anticipation  feigneth  fair  ! 

Thou  vainly  curious  Mind  which  wouldst  guess 

"Whence  thou  didst  come  and  whither  thou  mayest  go, 

And  that  which  never  yet  was  known  wouldst  know. 

Oh,  whither  hasten  ye,  that  thus  ye  press 

With  such  swift  feet  life's  green  and  pleasant  path. 

Seeking  alike  from  happiness  and  woe 

A  refuge  in  the  cavern  of  gray  death  ? 

O  heart  and  mind  and  thoughts  !  What  thing  do  you 

Hope  to  inherit  in  the  grave  below  ? 


LINES  TO  A  REVIEWER. 

Alas  !  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me  ? 
There  is  no  sport  in  bate  where  all  the  rage 
Is  on  one  side.     In  vain  would  you  assuage 
Your  frowns  upon  an  unresisting  smile, 
In  which  not  even  contempt  lurks,  to  beguile 
Your  heart,  by  some  faint  sympathy  of  hate. 
Oh  conquer  what  you  can  not  satiate  ! 
For  to  your  passion  I  am  far  more  coy 
Than  ever  yet  was  coldest  maid  or  boy 
In  winter  noon.     Of  your  antipathy 
If  I  am  the  Narcissus,  you  are  free 
To  pine  into  a  sound  with  hating  me  ! 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1821 


EPIPSYCHIDION: 

VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  NOBLE  AND  UNFORTUNATE 

LADY  EMILIA  V , 

NOW  IMPRISONED  IN  THE  CONVENT  OF . 


•*  L'anima  amante  si  slancia  furio  del  creato,  e  si  crea  nel  infinite 
un  Mondo  tutto  per  essa,  diverse  assai  da  questo  oscuro  e  pauroso 
baratro."  —  Her  own  words. 


My  Song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoning, 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  entertain ; 
Wlience,  if  by  misadventure,  chance  should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company  (as  chance  may  do), 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  contain, 
I  prithee,  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again. 
My  last  delight!  tell  them  that  they  are  dull, 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  beautiful. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


The  writer  of  the  following  lines  died  at  Florence,  as  he  was  pre 
paring  for  a  voyage  to  one  of  the  wildest  of  the  Sporades,  which  he  had 
bought,  and  where  he  had  fitted  up  the  ruins  of  an  old  building,  and 
where  it  was  his  hope  to  have  realized  a  scheme  of  life  suited  perhaps 
to  that  happier  and  better  world  of  which  he  is  now  an  inhabitant,  but 
hardly  practicable  in  this.  His  life  was  singular  —  Jess  on  account  of 
the  romantic  vicissitudes  which  diversified  it  than  the  ideal  tinge 
which  it  received  from  his  own  character  and  feelings.  The  present 
poem,  like  the  '  Vita  Nuova'  of  Dante,  is  sufficiently  intelligible  to  a 
certain  class  of  readers  without  a  matter-of-fact  history  of  the  circum- 
stances to  which  it  relates  ;  and  to  a  certain  other  class  it  must  ever 
remain  incomprehensible,  from  a  defect  of  a  common  organ  of  percep- 
tion for  the  ideas  of  which  it  treats.  Not  but  that,  gran  vergogna  sa- 
rebbe  a  colui,  che  rimasse  cosa  sotto  veste  di  figura,  o  di  colore  rettorico  :  c 
domandato  non  sapesse  denudare  le  sue  parole  da  cotal  veste,  in  guisa  che 
avessero  verace  intendimento. 

The  present  poem  appears  to  have  been  intended  by  the  writer  as 
the  dedication  to  some  longer  one.  The  stanza  on  the  opposite  page 
is  almost  a  literal  translation  from  Dante's  famous  canzone  — • 

"  Voi  cK  intendendo,  il  terzo  del  movete"  4"C. 

The  presumptuous  application  of  the  concluding  lines  to  his  own  com- 
position will  raise  a  smile  at  the  expense  of  my  unfortunate  friend : 
be  it  a  smile  not  of  contempt,  but  pity. 


EPIPSYCHIDION.  589 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


Sweet  Spirit !  sister  of  that  orphan  one, 
Whose  empire  is  the  name  thou  weepest  on, 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
These  votive  w^reaths  of  withered  memoiy. 

Poor  captive  bird  !  who,  from  thy  narrow  cage. 
Poorest  such  music,  that  it  might  assuage 
The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prisoned  thee, 
Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody  ; 
This  song  shall  be  thy  rose :  its  petals  pale 
Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  Nightingale  ! 
But  soft  and  fragrant  is  the  faded  blossom, 
And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy  bosom. 

High,  spirit-winged  heart !  who  dost  for  ever 
Beat  thine  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  endeavor, 
Till  those  bright  plumes  of  thought,  in  which  arrayed 
It  over-soared  this  low  and  worldly  shade, 
Lie  shattered  ;  and  thy  panting  wounded  breast 
Stains  with  dear  blood  its  unmaternal  nest ! 
I  weep  vain  tears  :  blood  w^ould  less  bitter  be, 
Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit  thee. 

Seraph  of  heaven  !  too  gentle  to  be  human, 
Vailing  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light  and  love  and  immortality  ! 
Sweet  benediction  in  the  eternal  curse  ! 
Vailed  glory  of  this  lampless  universe ! 
Thou  moon  beyond  the  clouds  !  thou  living  form 
Among  the  dead  !  thou  star  above  the  storm  ! 
Thou  wonder  and  thou  beauty  and  thou  terror ! 
Thou  harmony  of  Nature's  art !  thou  min-or 
In  whom,  as  in  the  splendor  of  the  sun. 
All  shapes  look  glorious  which  thou  gazest  on  ! 
Ay,  even  the  dim  words  which  obscure  thee  now 
Flash,  lightning  like,  with  unaccustomed  glow  ; 
I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad  song 
All  of  its  much  mortality  and  wrong. 
With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like  sacred  dew 
From  the  twin  lights  thy  sweet  soul  darkens  through, 
Weeping,  till  sorrow  becomes  ecstasy  : 
Then  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  die. 

I  never  thought  before  my  death  to  see 
Youth's  vision  thus  made  perfect :  Emily, 
1  love  thee  ;  though  the  world  by  no  thin  name 
Will  hide  that  love,  from  its  unvalued  shame. 
Would  we  two  had  been  twins  of  the  same  mother ! 
Or,  that  the  name  my  heart  lent  to  another 


590  EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Could  be  a  sister's  bond  for  her  and  thee, 

Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity  ! 

Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true, 

These  names,  though  dear,  could  paint  not,  as  is  due, 

How  beyond  refuge  I  am  thine.     Ah  me  ! 

I  am  not  thine  :  1  am  a  part  of  tliee. 

Sweet  Lamp  !  my  moth-like  Muse  has  burnt  its  wings, 
Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings, 
Young  Love  should  teach  Time,  in  his  own  gray  style, 
All  that  thou  art.     Art  thou  not  void  of  guile, 
A  lovely  soul  formed  to  be  blest  and  bless? 
A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness, 
Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music  are. 
Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom  ?     A  star 
Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  heavens,  alone  1 
A  smile  amid  dark  frowns  ?  a  gentle  tone 
Amid  rude  voices  ?  a  beloved  light  ? 
A  solitude,  a  refuge,  a  delight  ? 
A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to  play 
Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day 
And  lull  fond  grief  asleep  ?  a  buried  treasure  ? 
A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless  pleasure  ? 
A  violet-shrouded  grave  of  •woe  —  I  measure 
The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee. 
And  find  —  alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 

She  met  me,  stranger,  upon  life's  rough  way. 
And  lured  me  toward  sweet  death  :  as  night  by  day, 
Winter  by  spring,  or  sorrow  by  swift  hope, 
Led  into  light,  life,  peace.     An  antelope. 
In  the  suspended  impulse  of  its  lightness, 
Were  less  ethereally  light :  the  brightness 
Of  her  divinest  presence  trembles  through 
Her  limbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew 
Embodied  in  the  windless  heaven  of  June 
Amid  the  splendor-winged  stars,  the  moon 
Burns  inextinguishably  beautiful : 
And  from  her  lips,  as  from  a  hyacinth  full 
Of  honey-dew,  a  liquid  murmur  drops. 
Killing  the  sense  with  passion  :  sweet  as  stops 
Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 
In  her  mild  lights  the  starry  spirits  dance, 
The  sunbeams  of  those  wells  which  ever  leap 
Under  the  lightnings  of  the  soul  —  too  deep 
Tor  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or  sense, 
The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence. 
Stains  the  dead,  blank,  cold  air  with  a  warm  shade 
Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 
By  Love,  of  light  and  motion  ;  one  intense 
Diffusion,  one  serene  omnipresence, 
Whose  flowing  outlines  mingle  in  their  flowing 
Around  her  cheeks  and  utmost  fingers  glowing 


EPIPSYCHIOION. 

With  the  unintermitted  blood,  which  there 

duivers  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snow-like  air 

The  crimson  palse  of  living  morning  quiver), 

Continuously  prolonged,  and  ending  never, 

Till  they  are  lost,  and  in  that  beauty  furled 

Which  penetrates  and  clasps  and  fills  the  world ; 

Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 

Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her  light  dress 

And  her  loose  hair  ;  and  where  some  heavy  tress 

The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disent wined, 

The  sweetness  seems  to  satiate  the  faint  wind  ; 

And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odor  is  felt, 

Beyond  the  sense,  like  fiery  dews  that  melt 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  frozen  bud. 

See  where  she  stands  !  a  mortal  shape  indued 

With  love  and  hfe  and  light  and  deity, 

And  motion  which  may  change  but  can  not  die  ; 

An  image  of  some  bright  eternity  ; 

A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream ;  a  splendor 

Leaving  the  third  sphere  pilotless  ;  a  tender 

Reflection  on  the  eternal  moon  of  love 

Under  whose  motions  life's  dull  billows  move  ; 

A  metaphor  of  spring  and  youth  and  morning ; 

A  vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning. 

With  smiles  and  tears,  Frost  the  Anatomy 

Into  his  summer  grave. 

Ah  !  woe  is  me  ! 
What  have  I  dared  ?  where  am  I  lifted  ?  how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not  ?     I  know 
That  love  makes  all  things  equal :  I  have  heard 
By  mine  own  heart  this  joyous  truth  averred  : 
The  spirit  of  the  \\'orm  beneath  the  sod 
In  love  and  worship,  blends  itself  with  God. 

Spouse  !  s'ster  !  angel !     Pilot  of  the  fate 
Whose  course  has  been  so  starless !    O  too  late 
Beloved  !    O  too  soon  adored,  by  me  ! 
For  in  the  fields  of  immortality 
My  spirit  should  at  fir.st  have  worshiped  thine, 
A  divine  presence  in  a  place  divine  ; 
Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this  earth, 
A  shadow  of  that  substance,  from  its  birth ; 
But  not  as  now  :  I  love  thee ;  yes,  I  feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 
Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
For  thee,  since  in  tho.se  tears  thou  hast  delight. 
We — are  we  not  formed,  as  notes  of  music  are, 
For  one  another,  though  dissimilar  ; 
Such  diiFerence,  without  discord,  as  can  make 
Those  sweetest  sounds,  in  which  ail  spirits  shake 
As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air  ? 

Thy  wisdom  speaks  in  me,  and  bids  me  dare 


591 


592  EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Beacon  the  rocks  on  which  high  hearts  are  wreckt. 

I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect, 

Whose  doctrine  is,  that  each  one  should  select 

Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a  friend, 

And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and  wise,  commend 

To  cold  oblivion,  though  it  is  in  the  code 

Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 

Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  footsteps  tread.. 

Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 

By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and  so 

W  ith  one  chained  friend,  perhaps  a  jealous  foe, 

The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

True  love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love  is  like  understanding,  that  grows  bright, 
Gazing  on  many  truths  ;  'tis  like  thy  light. 
Imagination  !  which,  from  earth  and  sky. 
And  from  the  depths  of  human  phantasy. 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors,  fills 
The  universe  with  glorious  beams,  and  kills 
Error,  the  worm,  with  many  a  sunlike  arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning.     Narrow 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  brain  that  contemplates, 
The  life  that  weai-s,  the  spirit  that  creates 
One  object  and  one  form,  and  builds  thereby 
A  sepulchre  for  its  eternity. 

Mind  from  its  object  differs  mo.st  in  this : 
Evil  from  good  ;  misery  from  happiness  ; 
The  baser  from  the  nobler  ;  the  impure 
And  frail  from  what  is  clear  and  must  endure. 
If  you  divide  suffering  and  dross,  you  may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away ; 
If  you  divide  pleasure  and  love  and  thought. 
Each  part  exceeds  the  whole  ;  and  we  know  not 
How  much,  while  any  yet  remains  unshared. 
Of  pleasure  may  be  gained,  of  sorrow  spared  : 
This  truth  is  that  deep  well,  whence  sages  draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope  —  the  eternal  law 
By  which  those  live,  to  whom  this  world  of  life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  w^hose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wilderness  of  this  Elysian  earth. 

There  was  a  being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings,  far  aloft. 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's  dawn, 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn. 
Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the  caves 
Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  air-like  waves 
Of  wonder-level  dream,  whose  tremulous  floor 
Paved  her  light  steps  :  on  an  imagined  shore, 


EPIPSYCHIDION.  593 

Under  the  gray  beak  of  some  promontory 

She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding  glory, 

That  I  beheld  her  not.     In  solitudes 

Her  voice  came  to  me  through  the  whispering  woods, 

And  from  the  fountains  and  the  odors  deep 

Of  flowers,  which,  like  lips  murmuring  in  their  sleep 

Of  the  sweet  kisses  which  had  lulled  them  there, 

Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamored  air  ; 

And  from  the  breezes  w^hether  low  or  loud, 

And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud, 

And  from  the  singing  of  the  summer  birds, 

And  from  all  sounds,  all  silence.     In  the  words 

Of  antique  verse  and  high  romance  —  in  form, 

Sound,  color  —  in  whatever  checks  that  storm 

Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes  the  past ; 

And  in  that  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 

Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a  doom 

As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom  : 

Her  spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. — 

Then  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy  youth 
1  sprang,  as  one  sandaled  with* plumes  of  fire. 
And  toward  the  lodestar  of  my  one  desire 
I  flitted  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leaf's  in  the  owlet  light, 
When  it  would  seek  in  Helper's  setting  sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame. 
But  she,  whom  prayers  or  tears  then  could  not  tame, 
Passed,  like  a  god  throned  on  a  winged  planet, 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swiftness  fan  it, 
Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade  ; 
And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismayed, 
I  would  have  followed,  though  the  grave  between 
Yawned  like  a  gulf  whose  spectres  are  unseen : 
When  a  voice  said,  '•  O  thou  of  hearts  the  weakest, 
The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  thou  seekest !" 
Then  I :  "  Where  ?"  The  world's  echo  answered,  "  Where  !" 
And  in  that  silence,  and  in  m\'  despair, 
I  questioned  every  tongueless  wind  that  flew 
Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 
Whither  'twas  fled,  this  .soul  out  of  my  soul ; 
And  murmured  names  and  spells  which  have  control 
Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate  ; 
But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dis.sipate 
The  night  which  closed  on  her,  nor  uncreate 
That  world  within  this  chaos,  mine  and  me. 
Of  which  she  was  the  vailed  divinity. 
The  world  I  say  of  thoughts  that  worshiped  her  : 
And  therefore  I  went  forth,  with  hope  and  fear 
And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death. 
Feeding  my  course  with  expectation's  breath, 
Into  the  wintry  foresi  of  our  life  ; 
And  struggling  through  its  error  with  vain  strife, 
38 


594  EPIPSYCHIDION. 

And  stumbling  in  my  weakness  and  my  haste, 

And  half  bewildered  by  new  forms,  I  past 

Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 

If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers, 

In  which  she  might  have  masked  herself  from  me. 

There,  one  whose  voice  was  venomed  melody 

Sate  by  a  well,  under  blue  night-shade  bowers ; 

The  breath  of  her  false  mouth  was  like  faint  flowers, 

Her  touch  was  as  electric  poison  —  liame 

Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came, 

And  from  her  living  cheeks  and  bosom  flew 

A  killing  air.  which  pierced  like  honey-dew 

Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 

Upon  its  leaves  ;  until,  as  hair  grown  gray 

O'er  a  young  brow^,  they  hid  its  unblown  prime 

With  ruins  of  unseasonable  time. 

In  many  mortal  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of  that  idol  of  my  thought. 
And  some  were  fair  —  but  beauty  dies  away  : 
Others  were  wise  —  but  honeyed  words  betray  ; 
And  one  vs'as  true  —  oh  :  why  not  true  to  me  ? 
Then,  as  a  hunted  deer  that  could  not  flee. 
I  turned  upon  my  thoughts,  and  stood  at  bay, 
Wounded  and  weak  and  panting  ;  the  cold  day 
Trembled,  for  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain. 
When,  like  a  noonday  dawn,  there  shone  again 
Deliverance.     One  stood  on  my  path  who  seemed 
As  like  the  glorious  shape  which  I  had  dreamed 
As  is  the  moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  sun  ; 

The  cold  chaste  moon,  the  queen  of  heaven's  bright  isles, 
Who  makes  all  beautiful  on  which  .she  smiles. 
That  wandering  shrine  of  soft  yet  icy  flame 
Which  ever  is  transformed,  yet  still  the  same. 
And  warms  not  but  illumines.     Young  and  fair 
As  the  descended  spirit  of  that  sphere. 
She  hid  me,  as  the  moon  may  hide  the  night 
From  its  own  darkness,  until  all  was  bright 
Between  the  heaven  and  earth  of  my  calm  mind, 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  by  the  wind, 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild  place, 
And  sate  beside  me,  with  her  downward  face 
Illumining  my  slumbers,  like  the  moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Endymion. 
And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb. 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  moon's  image  in  a  summer  sea, 
According  as  she  smiled  or  frowned  on  me 
And  there  I  lay  within  a  chaste  cold  bed  : 
Alas  !  I  then  was  nor  alive  nor  dead  : 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came  Death  and  Life, 
Unmindful  each  of  their  accustomed  strife. 


EPIPSYCHIDION.  593 

Masked  like  twin  babes,  a  sister  and  a  brother, 
The  w^andering  hopes  of  one  abandoned  mother, 
And  through  the  caverns  without  wings  they  flew. 
And  cried,  "  Away,  he  is  not  of  our  crew." 
I  wept,  and  though  it  be  a  dream,  I  weep. 

What  storms  then  shook  tlie  ocean  of  my  sleep, 
Blotting  that  Moon,  whose  pale  and  waning  lips 
Then  shrank  as  in  the  sickness  of  eclipse ; 
And  how  my  soul  was  as  a  lampless  sea, 
And  who  was  then  its  Tempest ;  and  when  She, 
The  Planet  of  that  hour,  was  quenched,  what  frost 
Crept  o'er  those  waters,  till  from  coast  to  coast 
The  moving  billows  of  ray  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immoveable ; 
And  then  what  earthquakes  made  it  gape  and  split, 
The  white  Moon  smiling  all  the  while  on  it. 
These  words  conceal :  —  If  not.  each  word  would  be 
The  key  of  stanchless  tears.     Weep  not  for  me  ! 

At  length,  into  the  obscure  Forest  came 
The  vision  1  had  sought  through  grief  and  shame. 
Athwart  that  wintry  wilderness  of  thorns 
Flashed  from  her  motion  splendor  like  the  Morn's, 
And  from  her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Through  the  gray  earth  and  branches  bare  and  dead ; 
So  that  her  way  was  paved,  and  roofed  above 
With  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  budding  love  ; 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 
Like  light,  all  other  sounds  were  penetrated 
By  the  small,  still,  sweet  spirit  of  that  sound. 
So  that  the  savage  winds  hung  mute  around; 
And  odors  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her  hair 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  froze  air: 
Soft  as  an  incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
When  light  is  changed  to  love,  this  glorious  One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay, 
And  called  my  Spirit,  and  the  dreaming  clay 
Was  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dreamed  below 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and  in  her  beauty's  glow 
I  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long  night 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light : 
I  knew  it  was  the  vision  veiled  from  me 
So  many  years  —  that  it  was  Emily. 

Twin  Spheres  of  light  who  rule  this  passive  Earth, 
This  world  of  love,  this  me;  and  into  birth 
Awaken  all  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and  dart 
Magnetic  might  into  its  central  heart ; 
And  lift  its  billows  and  its  mists,  and  guide 
By  everlasting  laws  each  wind  and  tide 
To  its  fit  cloud,  and  its  appointed  cave  ; 
And  lull  its  storms,  each  in  the  craggy  grave 


596  EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Which  was  its  cradle,  luring  to  faint  bowers 

The  armies  of  the  rainbow-Avinged  show^ers ; 

And,  as  those  married  lights,  which  from  the  towers 

Of  heaven  look  forth  and  fold  the  wandering  globe 

In  liquid  sleep  and  splendor,  as  a  robe; 

And  all  their  many-mingled  influence  blend 

If  equal,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end ; 

So  ye,  bright  regents,  with  alternate  sway. 

Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and  day ! 

Thou,  not  disdaining  even  a  borrowed  might; 

Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light ; 

And,  through  the  shadow  of  the  seasons  three, 

From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity, 

Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb. 

Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom. 

Thou  too,  O  Comet,  beautiful  and  fierce. 

Who  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Universe 

Toward  thine  own  ;  till,  wrecked  in  that  convulsion, 

Alternating  attraction  and  repulsion. 

Thine  went  astray  and  that  was  rent  in  twain ; 

Oh,  float  into  our  azure  heaven  again  ! 

Be  there  love's  folding  star  at  thy  return  ; 

The  living  Sun  will  feed  thee  from  its  urn 

Of  golden  fire  ;  the  Moon  will  veil  her  horn 

In  thy  last  smiles  ;  adoring  Even  and  Morn 

Will  worship  thee  with  incense  of  calm  breath 

And  lights  and  shadows  ;  as  the  star  of  Death 

And  birth  is  worshiped  by  those  sisters  wild 

Called  Hope  and  Fear  —  upon  the  heart  are  piled 

Their  offerings,  of  this  sacrifice  divine 

A  world  shall  be  the  altar. 

Lady  mine. 
Scorn  not  these  flowers  of  thought,  the  fading  birth 
Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant  puts  forth, 
Whose  fruit,  made  perfect  by  thy  sunny  eyes, 
Will  be  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

The  day  is  come,  and  thou  wilt  fly  with  me 
To  whatso'er  of  dull  mortality 
Is  mine,  remain  a  vestal  sister  still ; 
To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperishable. 
Not  mine,  but  me,  henceforth  be  thou  united 
Even  as  a  bride,  delighting  and  delighted. 
The  hour  is  come :  —  the  destined  Star  has  risen 
Which  shall  descend  upon  a  vacant  prison. 
The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong,  thick  set 
The  sentinels  —  but  true  love  never  yet 
Was  thus  constrained  :  it  overleaps  all  fence  : 
Like  lightning,  with  invisible  violence 
Piercing  its  continents  ;  like  Heaven's  free  breath. 
Which  he  who  grasps  can  hold  not ;  liker  Death, 
Who  rides  upon  a  thought,  and  makes  his  w^ay 
Through  temple,  tower  and  palace,  and  the  array 
Of  arms  :  more  strength  has  Love  than  he  or  they  ; 


EPIPSYCHIDION.  597 

For  he  can  burst  his  chamel,  and  make  free 
The  limbs  in  chains,  the  heart  in  agony, 
The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 

Emily, 
A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbor  now, 
A  wind  is  hovering  o'er  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
There  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor, 
No  keel  has  ever  plowed  that  path  before , 
The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless  isles ; 
The  treacherous  Ocean  has  forsworn  its  wiles; 
The  meriy  mariners  are  bold  and  free  : 
Say,  my  heart's  sister,  wilt  thou  sail  with  me  ? 
Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  w^hose  nest 
Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  East ; 
And  we  between  her  wings  will  sit,  while  Night 
And  Day  and  Storm  and  Calm,  pursue  their  flight, 
Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  sea, 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies, 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise, 
And,  for  the  harbors  are  not  safe  and  good. 
This  land  would  have  remained  a  solitude 
But  for  some  pas^toral  people  native  there, 
Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear  and  golden  air 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold, 
Simple  and  spirited ;  innocent  and  bold. 
The  blue  ^gean  girls  this  chosen  home. 
With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and  foam, 
Kissing  the  sifted  sands,  and  caverns  hoar  ; 
And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the  shore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide : 
There  are  thick  woods  where  sylvan  forms  abide ; 
And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet  and  pond. 
As  clear  as  elemental  diamond, 
Or  serene  morning  air ;  and  far  beyond, 
The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and  deer 
(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but  once  a  year), 
Pierce  into  glades,  caverns  and  bowers  and  halls 
Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  waterfalls 
Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails. 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales  ; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs ; 
The  light  clear  element  which  the  isle  wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers, 
W^hich  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers, 
And  falls  upon  the  eye-lids  like  faint  sleep  ; 
And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils  peep. 
And  dart  their  arrowy  odor  through  the  brain 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 
And  every  motion,  odor,  beam  and  tone, 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison  : 
Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul  —  tiiey  seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  drcaui. 


598  EPIPSYCHIDION. 

It  is  an  isle  'twixt  heaven,  air,  earth  and  sea, 

Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquillity  ; 

Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden-Lncifer, 

Washed  by  the  soft  blue  oceans  of  young  air. 

It  is  a  favored  place.     Tamine  or  blii;ht. 

Pestilence,  war  and  earthquake,  never  light 

Upon  its  mountain-peaks  :  blind  vultures,  they 

Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  w^ay  : 

The  winged  storms,  chanting  their  thunder-psalm 

To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 

Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew, 

From  w^hich  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 

Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 

And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the  sky 

There  fall  clear  exhalations,  soft  and  bright. 

Vail  after  vail,  each  hiding  some  delight. 

Which  sun  or  moon  or  zephyr  draw  aside, 

Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 

Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness, 

Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess  : 

Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  soul  no  less 

Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle, 

An  atom  of  the  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 

Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt,  not  seen. 

O'er  the  gray  rocks,  blue  waves  and  forests  green, 

Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices.  — 

But  the  chief  marvel  of  the  wilderness 

Is  a  lone  dwelling,  built  by  whom  or  how^ 

None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know : 

'Tis  not  a  tower  of  strength,  though  with  its  hight 

It  overtops  the  woods  ;  but,  for  delight, 

Some  wise  and  tender  ocean  king,  ere  crime 

Had  been  invented,  in  the  world's  young  prime. 

Reared  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time. 

An  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 

Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse. 

It  scarce  seems  now  a  wreck  of  human  art. 

But,  as  it  were.  Titanic  ;  in  the  heart 

Of  Earth  having  assumed  its  form,  then  grown 

Out  of  the  mountains,  from  the  living  stone, 

Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  higli : 

For  all  the  antique  and  learned  imagery 

Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  of  it 

The  ivy  and  the  wild  vine  interknit 

The  volumes  of  their  many-twining  stems ; 

Parasite  flowers  illume  with  dewy  gems 

The  lampless  halls,  and  when  they  fade,  the  sky 

Peeps  through  their  winter-woof  of  tracery 

With  moonlight  patches,  or  star  atoms  keen, 

Or  fragments  of  the  day's  intense  serene  ; 

Working  mosaic  on  their  Parian  floors. 

And,  day  and  night,  aloof,  from  the  high  towers 

And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 

To  sleep  in  one  another's  arms,  and  dream 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


599 


Of  waves,  flowers,  clouds,  woods,  rocks,  and  all  that  we 
Read  in  their  smiles,  and  call  reality. 

This  isle  and  house  are  mine,  and  I  have  vowed 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  solitude. 
And  I  have  fitted  up  some  chambers  there 
Looking  toward  the  golden  eastern  air. 
And  level  with  the  living  wind.s,  which  flow 
Like  waves  above  the  living  waves  below. 
I  have  sent  books  and  music  there,  and  all 
Those  instruments  with  which  high  spirits  call 
The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  its  grave,  and  make  the  present  last 
In  thoughts  and  joys  which  sleep,  but  can  not  die, 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
Our  simple  life  wants  little,  and  true  taste 
Hires  not  the  pale  drudge  Luxury  to  waste 
The  scene  it  would  adorn,  and  therefore  still, 
Nature,  with  all  her  children,  haunts  the  hill. 
The  ring-dove,  in  the  embowering  ivy,  yet 
Keeps  up  her  love-lament,  and  the  owls  flit 
Round  the  evening  tower,  and  the  young  stars  glance 
Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight  dance  : 
The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moonlight 
Before  our  gate,  and  the  slow  silent  night 
Is  measured  by  the  pants  of  their  calm  sleep. 
Be  this  our  home  in  life,  and  when  years  heap 
Their  withered  hours,  like  leaves,  on  our  decay, 
Let  us  become  the  overhanging  day, 
The  living  soul  of  this  Elysian  isle, 
Conscious,  inseparable,  one.     Meanwhile 
We  two  will  rise  and  sit  and  walk  together. 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Ionian  weather. 
And  wander  in  the  meadows,  or  ascend 
The  mossy  mountains,  where  the  blue  heavens  bend 
With  hghtest  winds,  to  touch  their  paramour; 
Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-paven  shore. 
Under  the  quick  faint  kisses  of  the  sea. 
Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstasy  — 
Possessing  and  possessed  by  all  that  is 
Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss. 
And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live. 
Be  one  :  or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  arrive 
Where  some  old  cavern  hoar  seems  yet  to  keep 
The  moonlight  of  the  expired  night  asleep. 
Through  which  the  awakened  day  can  never  peep; 
A  vail  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  night's, 
Where  secure  sleep  may  kill  thine  innocent  lights ; 
Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the  rain 
Whose  drops  quench  kisses  till  they  burn  again. 
And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 
Become  too  sweet  for  utterance,  and  it  die 
In  words,  to  live  again  in  looks,  which  dart 
With  thrilling  tone  into  the  voiceless  heart, 


600  EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Harmonizing  silence  without  a  sound. 

Our  breath  shall  intermix,  our  bosoms  bound, 

And  our  veins  beat  together  ;  and  our  lips, 

"With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 

The  soul  that  burns  between  them,  and  the  wells 

Which  boil  under  our  being's  inmost  cells, 

The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall  be 

Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity. 

As  mountain-springs  under  the  morning  sun. 

We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be  one 

Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh  !  wherefore  two  ? 

One  passion  in  twin  hearts,  which  grows  and  grew 

Till  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame, 

Those  spheres  instinct  with  it  become  the  same, 

Touch,  mingle,  are  transfigured  :  ever  still 

Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable  .- 

In  one  another's  substance  finding  food. 

Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  unimbued 

To  nourish  their  bright  lives  with  baser  prey. 

Which  point  to  heaven,  and  can  not  pass  away  : 

One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 

Two  overshado-wing  minds,  one  life,  one  death, 

One  heaven,  one  hell,  one  immortality. 

And  one  annihilation.     Woe  is  me  ! 

The  winged  words  on  which  my  soul  would  pierce 

Into  the  Eight  of  Love's  rare  universe, 

Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of  fire. — 

I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire  ! 


Weak  Verses,  go,  kneel  at  your  sovereign's  feet, 
And  say,  "  We  are  the  masters  of  thy  slave  ; 
What  wouldst  thou  with  us  and  ours  and  thine  ?" 
Then  call  your  sisters  from  Oblivion's  cave, 
All  singing  loud,  "  Love's  very  pain  is  sweet. 
But  its  reward  is  in  the  world  divine. 
Which,  if  not  here,  it  builds  beyond  the  grave." 
So  shall  ye  live  when  I  am  there.     Then  haste 
Over  the  hearts  of  men,  until  ye  meet 
Marina,  Vanna,  Primus  and  the  rest. 
And  bid  them  love  each  other  and  be  blest : 
And  leave  the  troop  which  errs  and  which  reproves, 
And  come  and  be  my  guest  —  for  I  am  Love's. 


ADONAISj 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS, 

AUTHOR   OF   '  ENDVMION,'   'HYPERION,'    ETC. 


'Acr^p  irpiv  jx^v  eXajxTreg  Ivt  ^cooto-iv  ecjos- 
Nvv  6e  Oavdiv,  XdjJLveis  lavepoi  tv  tpQifiivon. 

Plmto. 


PREFACE. 


^apuaKOV  j^XOe,  Bia)i/,  nori  aov  aT6[iaj  (pdpjiaKov  eiSes' 
IIcSj  T£V  ToTs  ^£iX£(7(n  TTOTidpa^it,  KOVK  iyXvKUvQr] ; 
Tt5  6i  jSpoToi  ToaaovTov  dvuiiEpoi,  ])  Kepaaat  rot, 
*'H  Suiivai  \a\iovTt  Td  cpdp^axov  ;    £K<i^nyev  oif^dv, 

MoscHus,  Epitaph.  Bion. 


It  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the  London  edition  of  this  poem,  a 
criticism  upon  the  claims  of  its  lamented  object  to  be  classed  among 
the  writers  of  the  highest  genius  who  have  adorned  our  age.  My 
known  repugnance  to  the  narrow  principles  of  taste  on  which  several 
of  his  earlier  compositions  were  modeled,  prove,  at  least  that  I  am  an 
impartial  judge.  I  consider  the  fragment  of  •  Hyperion'  as  second  to 
notliing  that  was  ever  produced  by  a  writer  of  the  same  years. 

John  Keats  died  at  Rome,  of  a  consumption,  in  his  twenty-fourth 

year,  on  the of ,  182i  ;   and  was  buried  in  the  romantic  and 

lonely  cemetery  of  the  protestants  in  that  city,  under  the  pyramid 
which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now 
mouldering  and  desolate,  wliich  formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome. 
The  cemetery  is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter 
with  violets  and  daisies.  It  might  make  one  in  love  with  death,  to 
think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a  place. 

The  genius  of  the  lamented  person  to  whose  memory  I  have  dedi- 
cated these  unworthy  verses,  was  not  less  delicate  and  fragile  than  it 
was  beautiful  ;  and  where  canker-worms  abound,  what  wonder,  if  its 
young  flower  was  blighted  in  the  bud  ?  The  savage  criticism  on  his 
'  Endymion,'  which  appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  produced  the 
most  violent  effect  on  his  susceptible  mind  ;  the  agitation  thus  origi- 
nated ended  in  the  rupture  of  a  bloodvessel  in  the  lungs  ;  a  rapid  con- 
sumption ensued,  and  the  succeeding  acknowledgments  from  more 
candid  critics,  of  the  true  greatness  of  his  powers,  were  ineffectual  to 
heal  the  wound  thus  wantonly  inflicted. 

It  may  be  well  said,  that  these  wretched  men  know  not  what  they  do. 
They  scatter  their  insults  and  their  slanders  without  heed  as  to  whether 
the  poisoned  shaft  lights  on  a  heart  made  callous  by  many  blows,  or 
one,  like  Keals's,  composed  of  more  penetrable  stuflf.  One  of  their 
associates  is,  to  my  knowledge,  a  most  base  and  unprincipled  calum- 
niator.   As  to  *  Endymion,'  was  it  a  poem,  whatever  might  be  its  de- 


604  PREFACE. 

fects,  to  be  treated  contemptuously  by  those  wlio  had  celebrated  with 
various  degrees  of  complacency  and  panegyric,  '  Paris'  and  '  Woman' 
and  a  '  Syrian  Tale'  and  Mrs.  Lefanu  and  Mr.  Barret  and  Mr.  Howard 
Payne,  and  a  long  list  of  the  illustrious  obscure?  Are  these  the  men 
who,  in  their  venal  good  nature,  presumed  to  draw  a  parallel  between 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Milman  and  Lord  Byron?  What  gnat  did  they  strain  at 
here,  after  having  swallowed  all  those  camels  ?  Against  what  woman 
taken  in  adultery  dares  the  foremost  of  these  literary  prostitutes  to 
cast  his  opprobrious  stone?  Miserable  man  1  you,  one  of  the  meanest, 
have  wantonly  defaced  one  of  the  noblest  specimens  of  the  workman- 
ship of  God.  Nor  shall  it  be  your  excuse,  that,  murderer  as  you  are, 
you  have  spoken  daggers,  but  used  none. 

The  circumstances  of  the  closing  scene  of  poor  Keats's  life  were 
not  made  known  to  me  until  the  elegy  was  ready  for  the  press.  I  am 
given  to  understand  that  the  wound  which  his  sensitive  spirit  had  re- 
ceived from  the  criticism  of  '  Endymion'  was  exasperated  at  the  bitter 
sense  of  unrequited  benefits  ;  the  poor  fellow  seems  to  have  been 
hooted  from  the  stage  of  life,  no  less  by  those  on  whom  he  had  wasted 
the  promise  of  his  genius,  than  those  on  whom  he  had  lavished  his 
fortune  and  his  care.  He  was  accompanied  to  Rome  and  attended  in 
his  last  illness  by  Mr.  Severn,  a  young  artist  of  the  highest  promise, 
who,  I  have  been  informed,  "  almost  risked  his  own  life,  and  sacrificed 
every  prospect,  to  unwearied  attendance  upon  his  dying  friend."  Had 
I  known  these  circumstances  before  the  completion  of  my  poem,  I 
should  have  been  tempted  to  add  my  feeble  tribute  of  applause  to  the 
more  solid  recompense  which  the  virtuous  man  finds  in  the  recollec- 
tion of  his  own  motives.  Mr.  Severn  can  dispense  with  a  reward  from 
"  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of."    His  conduct  is  a  golden  augury 

of  the  success  of  his  future  career may  the  unextinguished  spirit 

of  his  illustrious  friend  animate  the  creations  of  his  pencil,  and  plead 
against  Oblivion  for  his  name  I 


ADONAIS.  605 


ADONAIS. 


I  WEKP  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 
Oh.,  weep  for  Adonais  !  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow  :  say,  "  With  me 
Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  !" 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?     With  vailed  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  echoes,  in  her  paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamored  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 

With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  beneath, 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 

Oh,  w^eep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,  melancholy  mother,  wake  and  weep  ! 
Yet  wherefore  ?     duench  witlwn  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep, 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep  ; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend  :  oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
W  ill  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air  : 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our  despair. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  !     He  died. 
Who  was  the  sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old  and  lonely,  when  Ids  country's  pride  — 
The  priest,  the  slave  and  the  liberticide  — 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified. 
Into  the  gulf  of  death  ;  but  his  clear  sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth,  the  third  among  the  sons  of  light. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb  ; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew. 
Whose  tapers  yet  bum  through  that  night  of  time 
In  which  suns  perished  ;  others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime  ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road. 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  serene  abode. 


606  ADONAIS. 

But  now,  tliy  youngest,  dearest  one,  has  perished, 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew. 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears,  instead  of  dew  ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last. 
The  bloom,  whose  petals,  nipped  before  they  hlew, 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste  ; 
The  broken  lily  lies  —  the  storm  is  overpast. 

To  that  high  capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  aiid  decay. 
He  came  ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal.  —  Come  away  ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay : 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  !  — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place  ; 
The  eternal  hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness  and  the  law 
Of  change  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain  draw. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  !  —  The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-w^inged  ministers  of  Thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not  — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain. 
But  droop  there,  v/hence  they  sprung  ;  and  mourn  their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  nor  find  a  home  again. 

And  one  with  trembling  hand  clasps  his  cold  head. 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries, 
'•  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead  ; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes. 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain." 
Lost  angel  of  a  ruined  paradise  ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own  ;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept  its  rain. 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his  light  limbs,  as  if  embalming  them  ; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreatli  upon  him,  like  an  auadem, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem ; 


ADO  NATS.  607 

Another  in  her  willful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow^  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 

Another  splendor  on  his  mouth  alit, 
That  mouth  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 
"Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music :  the  damp  death 
duenched  its  caress  uf>on  its  icy  lips  ; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapor,  w^hich  the  cold  night  clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  to  its  eclipse. 

And  others  came  —  Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  vailed  Destinies, 
Splendors  and  Glooms  and  glimmering  Incarnations 
Of  Hopes  and  Fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes. 
Came  in  slow  pomp — the  moving  pomp  might  seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought, 
From  shape  and  hue  and  odor  and  sweet  sound. 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watchtower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day  ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  Thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay. 
And  the  wild  Winds  flew  around,  sobbing  in  their  dismay. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains. 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green  spray, 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closhig  day , 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  they  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds  —  a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen  hear. 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were. 
Or  they  dead  leaves  ;  since  her  delight  is  flown, 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year  ? 
To  Phcebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou  Adonais :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth. 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears ;  odor,  to  sighing  ruth. 


G08  ADONAIS. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 
Moums  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain, 
Soainng  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest. 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee  :  the  corse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast. 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest ! 

Ah  woe  is  me !     Winter  is  come  and  gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year ; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone ; 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows,  reappear ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Season's  bier; 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake. 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere : 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and  ocean, 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst. 
As  it  has  ever  done,  w^ith  change  and  motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos  ;  in  its  stream  immersed. 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst ; 
Diffuse  themselves ;  and  spend  in  love's  delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 

The  leprous  corpse,  touched  by  this  spirit  tender. 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath  ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death, 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath ; 
Naught  we  know  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning  ?  —  th'  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose. 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  1  of  w^hat  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?     Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year  to  sorrow. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  ! 
"  Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "  childless  Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  tears  and  sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eves, 


ADONAIS.  609 

And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sisters  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried,  "  Arise  !" 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung, 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendor  sprung. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Has  left  the  earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt,  Urania, 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way, 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone  and  steel, 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery  tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell : 
And  barbed  tongues  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than  they 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel. 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death. 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  no  lato  her  dear  delight. 
'•  Leave  me  not  v/ild  and  drear  and  comfortless. 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
Leave  me  not!"  cried  Urania:  her  distress 
Roused  Death ;  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her  vain  caress. 

"  Stay  yet  a  while  !  speak  to  me  oice  again; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live  ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  butuing  brain 
That  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive. 
With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive. 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !     I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now^  art! 
But  1  am  chained  to  Time,  and  can  not  thence  depart! 

.  "  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert. 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart 
Dare  the  nnpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 
Detenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  !  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear? 
Or  liadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere. 

The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  Hed  from  thee  like  deer. 
39 


610  ADONAIS. 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead ; 
The  vultures,  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true, 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion ;  how  they  fled. 
When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bovs^, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  an-ow  sped 
And  smiled !     The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow. 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  lying  low. 

"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn  ; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again ; 
So  it  is  in  the  world  of  living  men : 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  v^^hen 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 

Thus  ceased  she  :  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow ;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong. 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his  tonguo. 

'Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form. 
A  phantom  among  men;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm, 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess. 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon  like,  and  now^  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness. 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way. 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their  prey 

A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked  ;  a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness ;  it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour  ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow  ;  even  while  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?     On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly  :  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may  bi  t'uk. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  over  blow^n. 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew. 


ADONAIS.  611 

Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer,  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears  ;  well  knew  that  gentle  band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own  ; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sang  new  sorrow^ ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured:  "  Who  art  thou?" 
He  answered  not,  but  witli  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow. 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's.     Oh  !  that  it  should  be  so  ! 

What  softer  voice  is  Jiushed  over  the  dead  ? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  throw^n  ? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed. 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  1 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  tlie  wise, 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honored  the  departed  one; 
Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs. 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacritice. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison  —  oh  ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown: 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong. 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone. 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre  unstrung. 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name  ! 
But  be  thyself  and  know  thy  self  to  be  ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  tliou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow : 
Remorse  and  Self  contempt  shall  cling  to  thee  ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow. 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt  —  as  now. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  lied 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  tiiat  scream  below  ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  un(iuenchably  the  same. 
While  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  liearth  pf  shame. 


612  ADONAIS. 

Peace,  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep  — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life  — 
'Tis  we,  w^ho,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings  —  We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  chamel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow^  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  vv^hich  men  miscall  delight. 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  spai'kless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he  ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais.     Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone  ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease  ye  faint  Howers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  vail  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair  ! 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature ;  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird  ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  knowji 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone. 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  w^ithdrawn  his  being  to  its  own  ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love. 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely  :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compeUing  there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear  ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
Prom  trees  and  beasts  and  mcii  into  the  Heaven's  light. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  bight  they  climb. 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  can  not  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  vail.     When  lofty  thought 


ADONAIS.  613 

Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair. 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there, 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chattertou 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought, 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved. 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose  ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  slirank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  can  not  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry  ; 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  a  heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng !" 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?  oh  come  fort!), 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  earth ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  raiglit 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  ;  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make  tliee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  :  'tis  naught 
That  ages,  empires  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrou;,'Iit ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend  —  they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay. 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  can  not  pass  away. 

Go  thou  to  Rome  —  at  once  the  paradise. 
The  grave,  the  city  and  the  w^ildernoss ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  monntains  rise. 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  sjn-ead. 


614  ADONAIS. 

And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand  ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  w^edge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble  ;  and  beneath 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death. 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished  breath. 

Here  pause  :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each  ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind. 
Break  it  not  thou  !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 

The  one  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass  ; 
Heaven's  light  for  ever  shines,  earth's  shadows  fly  : 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass. 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity. 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments.  —  Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek  ! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled  ! —  Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  w^eak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  heart  ? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before  :  from  all  things'here 
They  have  departed  ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year. 
And  man  and  woman  ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles  —  the  low  wind  whispers  near  ; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls  !  oh  hasten  thither  : 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together  ! 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  universe. 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea. 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst  —  now  beams  on  me. 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given  : 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  ! 


MUTABILITY.  615 

I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar  ; 
While  burning  through  the  inmost  vail  of  heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  eternal  are. 


TOE***     V***. 

Madonna,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me 

Sweet  basil  and  mignonnette  ? 
Embleming  love  and  health,  which  never  yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be. 
Alas  !  and  they  are  w^et ! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears  ! 

For  never  rain  or  dew 

Such  fragrance  drew 
From  plant  or  flower  —  the  very  doubt  endears 

My  sadness  ever  new, 
The  sighs  I  breathe,  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee. 

March,  1821. 


TIME. 

Unfathomabf.e  sea  !  whose  waves  are  years, 
Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears  ! 

Thou  shorele.-is  Hood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality  ! 
And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Voniitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable  shore  : 
Treacherous  in  calm  and  terrible  in  storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee. 
Unfathomable  sea  ? 


MUTABILITY. 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-monow  dies  : 

All  that  we  wish  to  stay. 

Tempts  and  then  flies  ; 

What  is  this  world's  delight  ? 

Lightning  that  mocks  the  night. 

Brief  even  as  britrht. 


616  LINES. 

Virtue,  how  frail  it  is  ! 

Friendship  too  rare ! 
Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

For  proud  despair  ! 
But  we  though  soon  they  fall, 
Survive  their  joy  and  all 
Which  ours  we  call. 

While  skies  are  blue  and  bright, 
While  flowers  are  gay, 

While  eyes  that  change  ere  night 
Make  glad  the  day  ; 

While  yet  the  calm  hours  creep. 

Dream  thou  —  and  from  thy  sleep 

Then  wake  to  weep. 


FROM  THE  ARABIC. 

AN    IMITATION. 

My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 

Of  thy  looks,  my  love  ; 
It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 

For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
Thy  barb,  whose  hoofs  outspeed  the  tempest's  flight, 

Bore  thee  far  from  me  ; 
My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary  soon. 

Did  companion  thee. 

Ah  !  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 

Or  the  death  they  bear. 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove 

With  the  wings  of  care  ; 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need. 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee. 
Nor  claim  one  smile,  for  all  the  comfort,  love, 

It  may  bring  to  thee  ! 


LINES. 

Far,  far  away,  O  ye 
Halcyons  of  memory, 
Seek  some  far  calmer  nest 
Than  this  abandoned  breast  — 
No  news  of  your  false  spring 
To  my  heart's  winter  bring ; 
Once  having  gone,  in  vain 
Ye  come  again. 


TO    NIGHT.  617 


Vultures,  who  build  your  bowers 
High  in  the  Future's  towers, 
Withered  hopes  on  hopes  are  spread 
Dying  joys,  choked  by  the  dead, 
Will  serve  your  beaks  for  prey 
Many  a  day. 


Ta 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory  — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


TO  NIGHT. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight. 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear  — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray. 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out. 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land. 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long  sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 


618  THE    FUGITIVES. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"  Wouldst  thou  roe  ?" 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmured  Hke  a  noontide  bee, 
"  Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ?"  —  And  1  replied, 
"  No,  not  thee  !" 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon  — 
Sleep  w^ill  come  w^hen  thou  art  fled  ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 


THE  FUGITIVES. 


The  waters  are  flashing. 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing. 
The  hoar  spray  is  dancing  — 
Away  ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling 
The  thunder  is  tolling, 
The  forest  is  swinging. 
The  minster  bells  ringing  — 
Come  away  ! 

The  earth  is  like  ocean. 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion 
Bird,  beast,  man  and  worm. 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm  - 
Come  away  ! 


"  Our  boat  has  one  sail. 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale  : 
A  bold  pilot,  I  trow. 
Who  should  follow  us  now  !" 
Shouted  he  — 

And  she  cried,  "  Ply  the  oar  : 
Put  off  gayly  from  shore  !" 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death 
Mixed  with  hail,  specked  their  path 
O'er  the  sea. 


TO  .  619 

And  from  isle,  tower  and  rock, 
The  blue  beacon-cloud  broke, 
Though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flashed  fast 
From  the  lee. 

III. 

"  And  fear'st  thou,  and  fear'st  thou  ? 
And  see'st  thou,  and  hear'st  thou  ? 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 
1  and  thou?" 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover  — 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low  — 

While  around,  the  lashed  ocean. 
Like  mountains  in  motion. 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted. 
Sunk,  shattered  and  shifted, 
To  and  fro. 

IV. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress 
Beside  the  pale  portress. 
Like  a  bloodhound  well  beaten 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame  ; 

On  the  topmost  watchturret. 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant-father  : 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame ; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 
As  ere  clung  to  child, 
He  devotes  to  the  blnst 
The  best,  loveliest  and  last 
Of  his  name ! 


TO 


Mine  eyes  were  dim  witii  tears  unshed  ; 

Yes.  i  was  firm  —  thus  wert  not  thou  ; 
My  baflled  looks  did  fear  yet  dread 

To  meet  thy  looks  :  I  could  not  knoAV 


620  SONG. 

How  anxiously  they  sought  to  shine 
With  soothing  pity  upon  mine. 

To  sit  and  curb  the  soul's  mute  rage 
Which  preys  upon  itself  alone  ; 

To  curse  the  life  which  is  the  cage 
Of  fettered  grief  that  dares  not  groan, 

Hiding  from  rnany  a  careless  eye 

The  scoi-ned  load  of  agony. 

While  thou  alone,  then  not  regarded, 
The  [  ]  thou  alone  should  be. 

To  spend  years  thus,  and  be  rewarded. 
As  thou,  sweet  love,  requited  me 

When  none  were  near.     Oh  !  I  did  wake 

From  torture  for  that  moment's  sake. 

Upon  my  heart  thy  accents  sweet 
Of  peace  and  pity  fell  like  dew 

On  flowers  half  dead  ;  thy  lips  did  meet 
Mine  tremblingly  ;  thy  dark  eyes  threw 

Their  soft  persuasion  on  my  brain. 

Charming  away  its  dream  of  pain. 

We  are  not  happy,  sweet !  our  state 
Is  strange  and  full  of  doubt  and  fear; 

More  need  of  words  that  ills  abate  ; 
Reserve  or  censure  come  not  near 

Our  sacred  friendship  —  lest  there  be 

No  solace  left  for  thou  and  me. 

Gentle  and  good  and  mild  thou  art, 
Nor  can  I  live  if  thou  appear 

Aught  but  thyself,  or  turn  thine  heart 
Away  from  me,  or  stoop  to  wear 

The  mask  of  scorn,  although  it  be 

To  hide  the  love  thou  feel'st  for  me. 


SONG. 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  ? 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 


621 


Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed  ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure  : 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity  — 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest. 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
The  fresh  earth  in  new  leaves  drest, 

And  the  starry  night ; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost : 
I  love  waves  and  winds  and  storms, 

Everything  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude. 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise  and  good  : 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  Love  —  though  he  has  wings. 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But,  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee  : 
Thou  art  love  and  life  !     O  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home  ! 


TO . 

When  passion's  trance  is  overpast, 
If  tenderness  and  truth  could  last 
Or  live,  while  all  wild  feelings  keep 
Some  mortal  slumber,  dark  and  deep, 
I  should  not  weep,  I  should  not  weep  ! 


622         LINES    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    NAPOLEON. 

It  were  enough  to  feel,  to  see 

Thy  soft  eyes  gazing  tenderly, 

And  dream  the  rest — 'and  burn  and  be 

The  secret  food  of  fires  unseen, 

Couldst  thou  but  be  as  thou  hast  been. 

After  the  slumber  of  the  year 
The  woodland  violets  reappear, 
All  things  revive  in  field  or  grove. 
And  sky  and  sea,  but  two,  which  move, 
And  for  all  others,  life  and  love. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   ON    HEARING   THE    NEWS   OF   THE   DEATH    OF 
NAPOLEON. 

What  !  alive  and  so  bold,  O  Earth  ? 

Art  thou  not  over-bold  ? 
What !  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old 

In  the  light  of  thy  morning  mirth, 
The  last  of  the  flock  of  the  starry  fold  ? 
Ha !  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old  ? 
Are  not  the  limbs  still  when  the  ghost  is  fled. 
And  canst  thou  more.  Napoleon  being  dead  ? 

How  !  is  not  thy  quick  heart  cold  ? 

What  spark  is  alive  on  thy  hearth  ? 
How !  is  not  his  death-knell  knolled  ? 

And  livest  thou  still,  mother  Earth  ? 
Thou  wert  warming  thy  fingers  old 
O'er  the  embers  covered  and  cold 
Of  that  most  fiery  spirit,  when  it  fled  — 
What,  mother,  do  you  laugh  now  he  is  dead  ? 

"Who  has  known  me  of  old  1"  replied  Earth, 

"  Or  who  has  my  story  told  ? 
It  is  thou  who  art  over-bold." 

And  the  lightning  of  scorn  laughed  forth 
As  she  sung,  "  To  my  bosom  I  fold 
All  my  sons  when  their  knell  is  knolled, 
And  so  with  living  motion  all  are  fed. 
And  the  quick  spring  like  weeds  out  of  the  dead. 

"  Still  alive  and  still  bold  !"  shouted  Earth, 
"  I  grow  bolder,  and  still  more  bold. 

The  dead  fill  me  ten  thousand  fold 
Fuller  of  speed  and  splendor  and  mirth  ; 

I  was  cloudy  and  sullen  and  cold, 

Like  a  frozen  chaos  uproUed, 


A   FRAGMENT.  623 

Till  by  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  dead 

My  heart  grew  warm.     I  feed  on  whom  I  fed. 

"  Ay,  alive,  and  still  bold,"  muttered  Earth, 

"  Napoleon's  fierce  spirit  rolled, 
In  terror  and  blood  and  gold, 

A  torrent  of  ruin  to  death  from  his  birth. 
Leave  the  millions  who  follow  to  mould 
The  metal  before  it  be  cold, 
And  weave  into  his  shame,  which  like  the  dead 
Shrouds  me,  the  hopes  that  from  his  glory  fled." 


EVENING. 

PONTE    A   MARE,    PISA. 

The  sun  is  set ;  the  swallows  are  asleep ; 

The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  gray  air ; 
The  slow  soft  toads  out  of  damp  corners  creep, 

And  Evening's  breath,  wandering  here  and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  the  stream. 
Wakes  not  one  ripple  from  its  silent  dream. 

There  is  no  dew  on  the  dry  grass  to-night. 
Nor  damp  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees  ; 

The  wind  is  intermitting,  dry  and  light ; 
And  in  the  inconstant  motion  of  the  breeze 

The  dust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and  down, 

And  whirled  about  the  pavement  of  the  town. 

Within  the  surface  of  the  fleeting  river 

The  wrinkled  image  of  the  city  lay, 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  never  fades  away  ; 
Go  to  the  [  ] 

You,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as  now. 

The  chasm  in  which  the  sun  has  sunk  is  shut 
By  darkest  barriers  of  enormous  cloud, 

Like  mountain  over  mountain  huddled  —  but 
Growing  and  moving  upward  in  a  crowd. 

And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue, 

Which  the  keen  evening-star  is  shining  through. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 
Gazes  on  the  azure  sky, 


624  GINEVRA. 

Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds  ; 
As  a  gray  and  empty  mist 
Lies  like  solid  amethyst, 

Over  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds. 
When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

As  a  strain  of  sweetest  sound 
Wraps  itself  the  wind  around, 

Until  the  voiceless  wind  be  music  too  ; 
As  aught  dark,  vain  and  dull, 
Basking  in  what  is  beautiful, 

Is  full  of  light  and  love. 


GINEVRA.* 

Wild,  pale  and  wonder-stricken,  even  as  one 
Who  staggers  forth  into  the  air  and  sun 
From  the  dark  chamber  of  a  mortal  fever, 
Bewildered  and  incapable  and  ever 
Fancying  strange  comments  in  her  dizzy  brain 
Of  usual  shapes,  till  the  familiar  train 
Of  objects  and  of  persons  passed  like  things 
Strange  as  a  dreamer's  mad  imaginings, 
Ginevra  from  the  nuptial  altar  went ; 
The  vows  to  which  her  lips  had  sworn  assent 
Rung  in  her  brain  still  with  a  jarring  din, 
Deafening  tlie  lost  intelligence  within. 

And  so  she  moved  under  the  bridal  vail. 
Which  made  the  paleness  of  her  cheek  more  pale, 
And  deepened  the  faint  crimson  of  her  mouth, 
And  darkened  her  dark  locks,  as  moonlight  doth  — 
And  of  the  gold  and  jewels  glittering  there 
She  scarce  felt  conscious — but  the  weary  glare 
Lay  like  a  chaos  of  unwelcome  light. 
Vexing  the  sense  with  gorgeous  undelight 
A  moonbeam  in  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Was  less  heavenly  fair  —  her  face  was  bowed, 
And  as  she  passed,  the  diamonds  in  her  hair 
Were  mirrored  in  the  polished  marble  stair 
Which  led  from  the  cathedral  to  the  street ; 
And  even  as  she  went  her  light  fair  feet 
Erased  these  images. 

The  bride-maidens  who  round  her  thronging  came, 
Some  with  a  sense  of  self-rebuke  and  shame, 

*  This  fragment  is  part  of  a  poem  which  Shelley  intended  to  write,  founded  on  a  »toiy 
i  be  found  in  the  first  volume  of  a  book  entitled  '  L'Osservatore  Fiorentino.' 


GINEVRA.  625 

Envying  the  unenviable  ;  and  others 
Making  the  joy  which  should  have  been  another's 
Their  own  by  gentle  sympathy  ;  and  some 
Sighing  to  think  of  an  unhappy  home ; 
Some  few  admiring  what  can  ever  lure 
Maidens  to  leave  the  heaven  serene  and  pure 
Of  parents'  smiles  for  life's  great  cheat ;  a  thing 
Bitter  to  taste,  sweet  in  imagining. 

But  they  are  all  dispersed — and  lo  !  she  stands 

Looking  in  idle  grief  on  her  white  hands, 

Alone  within  the  garden  now  her  own  ; 

And  through  the  sunny  air  with  jangling  tone, 

The  music  of  the  merry  marriage-bells, 

Killing  the  azure  silence,  sinks  and  swells  ; 

Absorbed  like  one  within  a  dream  who  dreams 

That  he  is  dreaming,  until  slumber  seems 

A  mockery  of  itself — when  suddenly 

Antonio  stood  before  her,  pale  as  she. 

With  agony,  with  sorrow  and  with  pride, 

He  lifted  his  wan  eyes  upon  the  bride, 

And  said,  "  Is  this  thy  faith  ?"  and  then  as  one 

Whose  sleeping  face  is  stricken  by  the  sun 

With  light  like  a  harsh  voice,  which  bids  him  I'ise 

And  look  upon  his  day  of  life  with  eyes 

Which  weep  in  vain  that  they  can  dream  no  more, 

Ginevra  saw  her  lover,  and  forbore 

To  shriek  or  faint,  and  checked  the  stifling  blood 

Rushing  upon  her  heart,  and  unsubdued 

Said,  "Friend,  if  earthly  violence  or  ill, 

Suspicion,  doubt  or  the  tyrannic  will 

Of  parents,  chance  or  custom,  time  or  change 

Or  circumstance  or  terror  or  revenge 

Or  wildered  looks  or  words  or  evil  speech, 

With  all  their  stings  and  venom  can  impeach 

Our  love — we  love  not :  if  the  grave  which  hides 

The  victim  from  the  tyrant,  and  divides 

The  cheek  that  whitens  from  the  eyes  that  dart 

Imperious  inquisition  to  the  heart 

That  is  another's,  could  dissever  ours. 

We  love  not."  —  "  What !  do  not  the  silent  hours 

Beckon  thee  to  Gherardi's  bridal  bed  ? 

Is  not  that  ring" a  pledge,  he  would  have  said, 

Of  broken  vows,  but  she  with  patient  look 
The  golden  circle  from  her  finger  took, 
And  said,  "  Accept  this  token  of  my  faith. 
The  pledge  of  vows  to  be  absolved  by  death  : 
And  I  am  dead,  or  shall  be  soon  —  my  knell 
Will  mix  its  music  with  that  merry  bell ; 
Does  it  not  sound  as  if  they  sweetly  said. 
'  We  toll  a  corpse  out  of  the  marriage-bed  V 
The  flowers  upon  my  bridal-chamber  strewn 
Will  serve  unfaded  for  my  bier  — so  soon 
40 


626  GINEVRA. 

That  even  the  dying  violet  will  not  die 

Before  Ginevra."     The  strouij  fantasy 

Had  made  her  accents  weaker  and  more  weak. 

And  quenched  the  crimson  life  upon  her  cheek. 

And  f^lazed  her  eyes,  and  spread  an  atmosphere 

Round  her,  which  chilled  the  burning  noon  with  fear, 

Making  her  but  an  image  of  the  thought, 

"Which,  like  a  prophet  or  a  shadow,  brought 

News  of  the  terrors  of  the  coming  time. 

Like  an  accuser  branded  with  the  crime 

He  would  have  cast  on  a  beloved  friend, 

Whose  dying  eyes  reproach  not  to  the  end 

The  pale  betrayer  —  he  then  with  vain  repentance 

Would  share,  he  can  not  now  avert,  the  sentence  — 

Antonio  stood,  and  would  have  spoken,  when 

The  compound  voice  of  women  and  of  men 

Was  heard  approaching  :  he  retired,  while  she 

Was  led  amid  the  admiring  company 

Back  to  the  palace  —  and  her  maidens  soon 

Changed  her  attire  for  the  afternoon, 

And  left  her  at  her  own  request  to  keep 

An  hour  of  quiet  and  rest :  like  one  asleep 

With  open  eyes  and  folded  hands  she  lay, 

Pale  in  the  light  of  the  declining  day. 

Meanvv'hile  the  day  sinks  fast,  the  sun  is  set. 
And  in  the  lighted  hall  the  guests  are  met ; 
The  beautiful  looked  lovelier  in  the  light 
Of  love  and  admiration  and  delight, 
Reflected  from  a  thousand  heai-ts  and  eyes 
Kindling  a  momentary  paradise. 
This  crowd  is  safer  than  the  silent  wood, 
Where  love's  own  doubts  disturb  the  solitude; 
On  frozen  hearts  the  fiery  rain  of  wine 
Falls,  and  the  dew  of  music  more  divine 
Tempers  the  deep  emotions  of  the  time 
To  spirits  cradled  in  a  sunny  clime : 
How  many  meet,  who  never  yet  have  met, 
To  part  too  soon,  but  never  to' forget ! 
How  many  saw  the  beauty,  power  and  wit 
Of  looks  and  words  which  ne'er  enchanted  yet ! 
But  life's  familiar  vail  was  now  withdrawn, 
As  the  world  leaps  Before  an  earthquake's  dawn, 
And  unprophetic  of  the  coming  hours. 
The  matin  winds  from  the  expanded  flowers 
Scatter  their  hoarded  incense,  and  awaken 
The  earth,  until  the  dewy  sleep  is  shaken 
Prom  every  living  heart  which  it  possesses. 
Through  seas  and  winds,  cities  and  wildernesses, 
As  if  the  future  and  the  past  were  all 
Treasured  i'  the  instant  —  so  Gherardi's  hall 
Laughed  in  the  mirth  of  its  lord's  festival, 
Till  some  one  asked,  "  Where  is  the  bride  ?"    And  then 
A  bride's-maid  went  —  and  ere  she  came  again 


GINEVRA.  027 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  guests  —  a  pause 

Of  expectation,  as  when  beauty  awes 

All  hearts  with  its  approach,  though  unbeheld  ; 

Then  wonder,  and  then  fear  that  wonder  quelled  : 

For  whispers  passed  from  mouth  to  ear  which  drew 

The  color  from  the  hearer's  cheeks,  and  flew 

Louder  and  swifter  round  the  company  ; 

And  then  Gherardi  entered  with  an  eye 

Of  ostentatious  trouble,  and  a  crowd 

Surrounded  him,  and  some  w^ere  weeping  loud. 

They  found  Ginevia  dead  !  if  it  he  death 
To  lie  without  motion  or  pulse  or  breath, 
With  waxen  cheeks,  and  limbs  cold,  stiff  and  white, 
And  open  eyes,  whose  fixed  and  glassy  light 
Mocked  at  the  speculation  they  had  owned. 
If  it  be  death,  when  there  is  felt  around 
A  smell  of  clay,  a  pale  and  icy  glare. 
And  silence,  and  a  sense  that  lifts  the  hair 
From  the  scalp  to  the  ankles,  as  it  were 
Corruption  from  the  spirit  passing  forth, 
And  giving  all  it  shrouded  to  the  earth. 
And  leaving  as  swift  hghtning  in  its  flight 
Ashes  and  smoke  and  darkness  :  in  our  night 
Of  thought  we  know  thus  much  of  death  —  no  more 
Than  the  unborn  dream  of  our  life  before 
Their  barks  are  wrecked  on  its  inhospitable  shore. 
The  marriage-feast  and  its  solemnity 
Was  turned  to  funeral  pomp  :  the  company, 
With  heavy  hearts  and  looks,  broke  up  ;  nor  they 
Who  loved  the  dead  went  weeping  on  their  way 
Alone,  but  sorrow  mixed  with  sad  surprise 
Loosened  the  springs  of  pity  in  all  eyes. 
On  which  that  form,  whose  fate  they  weep  in  vain, 
Will  never,  thought  they,  kindle  smiles  again. 
The  lamps  which  half  extinguished  in  their  haste 
Gleamed  few  and  faint  o'er  the  abandoned  feast, 
Showed  as  it  were  within  the  vaulted  room 
A  cloud  of  sorrow  hanging,  as  if  gloom 
Had  passed  out  of  men's  minds  into  the  air. 
Some  few  yet  stood  around  Gherardi  there. 
Friends  and  relations  of  the  dead  —  and  he, 
A  loveless  man,  accepted  torpidly 
The  consolation  that  he  wanted  not, 
Awe  in  the  place  of  grief  within  him  wrought. 
Their  whispers  made  the  solemn  silence  seem 
More  still ,  some  wept,  [  ] 

Some  melted  into  tears  without  a  sob, 
And  some  with  hearts  that  might  be  heard  to  throb 
Leaned  on  the  table,  and  at  intervals 
Shuddered  to  hear  through  the  deserted  halls 
And  corridors  the  thrilling  shrieks  which  came 
Upon  the  breeze  of  night,  that  shook  the  flame 


628  TO-MORROW. 

Of  every  torch  and  taper  as  it  swept 
From  out  the  chamber  w^here  the  women  kept ; 
Their  tears  fell  on  the  dear  companion  cold 
Of  pleasures  now  departed  ;  then  was  knolled 
The  bell  of  death,  and  soon  the  priests  ai-rived, 
And  finding  death  their  penitent  had  shrived, 
Returned  like  ravens  from  a  corpse  whereon 
A  vulture  has  just  feasted  to  the  bone. 
And  then  the  mourning- women  came.  — 


THE  DIRGE. 

Old  Winter  was  gone 
In  his  weakness  back  to  the  mountains  hoar, 

And  the  Spring  came  down 
From  the  planet  that  hovers  upon  the  shore 
Where  the  sea  of  sunlight  encroaches 
On  the  limits  of  wintry  night  ; 
If  the  land  and  the  air  and  the  sea 
Rejoice  not  when  Spring  approaches, 
We  did  not  rejoice  in  thee, 

Ginevra ! 

She  is  still,  she  is  cold 

On  the  bridal  couch. 
One  step  to  the  white  death  bed, 

And  one  to  the  bier, 
And  one  to  the  charnel  —  and  one,  oh  where  ? 

The  dark  arrow  fled 

In  the  noon. 

Ere  the  sun  through  heaven  once  more  has  rolled, 
The  rats  in  her  heart 
Will  have  made  their  nest, 
And  the  worms  be  alive  in  her  golden  hair, 
While  the  spirit  that  guides  the  sun 
Sits  throned  in  his  flaming  chair, 
She  shall  sleep. 


TO-MORROW. 

Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow? 

When  young  and  old,  and  strong  and  weak, 
Rich  and  poor,  through  joy  and  sorrow, 

Thy  sweet  smiles  'we  ever  seek  — 
In  thy  place  —  ah  !  wella-day  ! 
We  find  the  thing  we  fled  —  To-day. 


A    BRIDAL    SONG.  629 


A  FRAGMENT. 

They  were  two  cousins,  almost  like  two  twins, 

Except  that  from  the  catalogue  of  sins 

Nature  had  razed  their  love  —  which  could  not  be 

But  by  dissevering  their  nativity. 

And  so  they  grew  together,  like  two  flowers 

Upon  one  stem,  which  the  same  beams  and  showers 

Lull  or  awaken  in  their  purple  prime, 

Which  the  same  hand  will  gather  —  the  same  clime 

Shake  with  decay.     This  fair  day  smiles  to  see 

All  those  who  love  —  and  who  ever  loved  like  thee, 

Fiordispina  ?     Scarcely  Cosimo, 

Within  whose  bosom  and  whose  brain  now  glow 

The  ardors  of  a  vision  which  obscure 

The  very  idol  of  its  portraiture  ; 

He  faints,  dissolved  into  a  sense  of  love ; 

But  thou  art  as  a  planet  sphered  above, 

But  thou  art  Love  itself — ruling  the  motion 

Of  his  subjected  spirit  —  such  emotion 

Must  end  in  sin  or  sorrow,  if  sweet  May 

Had  not  brought  forth  this  morn  —  your  wedding-day. 


A  BRIDAL  SONG. 


The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar 

Where  strength  and  beauty  met  together, 

Kindle  their  image  like  a  star 
In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 

Night,  with  all  thy  stars,  look  down  — 
Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew  — 

Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 
O  n  a  pair  so  true. 

Let  eyes  not  see  their  own  delight : 

Haste,  swift  Hour,  and  thy  flight 
Oft  renew. 


Fairies,  sprites  and  angels,  keep  her  ! 

Holy  stars,  permit  no  wrong  ! 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Dawn  —  ere  it  be  long. 
O  joy  !  O  fear !  what  will  be  done 

In  the  absence  of  the  sun  ! 
Come  along ! 


630  TO 


A  LAMENT. 

Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight, 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight, 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  and  gone  ; 
As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead. 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 

I  am  left  lone,  alone. 

The  swallow  Summer  comes  again. 
The  owlet  Night  resumes  her  reign. 
But  the  wild  swan  Youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow, 
Sleep  itself  is  turned  to  sorrow. 
Vainly  w^oald  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  from  any  bough. 

Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed, 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head, 
Violet's  for  a  maiden  dead, 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be  ; 
On  the  living  grave  1  bear 
Scatter  them  without  a  tear  : 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 


TO 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  w^hat  men  call  love. 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not  — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


THE    BOAT.  631 


THE  BOAT, 

ON    THE   SERCHIO. 

Our  boat  is  asleep  on  Serchio's  stream, 
Its  sails  are  folded  like  thoughts  in  a  dream, 
The  helm  sways  idly,  hither  and  thither  ; 
Dominic,  the  boatman,  has  brought  the  mast, 
And  the  oars  and  the  sails  ;  but  'tis  sleeping  fast, 
Like  a  beast,  unconscious  of  its  tether. 

The  stare  burnt  out  in  the  pale  blue  air. 

And  the  thin  white  moon  lay  withering  there, 

To  tower  and  cavern  and  rift  and  tree 

The  owl  and  the  bat  fled  drowsily. 

Day  had  kindled  the  dewy  woods 

And  the  rocks  above  and  the  stream  below, 

And  the  vapors  in  their  multitudes, 

And  the  Apennine's  shroud  of  summer  snow, 

And  clothed  with  light  of  aery  gold 

The  mists  in  their  eastern  caves  uproUed, 

Day  had  awakened  all  things  that  be. 
The  lark  and  the  thrush  and  the  swallow  free  ; 
And  the  milkmaid's  song  and  the  mower's  sythe, 
And  the  matin-bell  and  the  mountain-bee  ; 
Fireflies  were  quenched  on  the  dewy  corn. 
Glow-worms  went  out  on  the  rivers  brim. 
Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to  trim : 
The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn, 
The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow  and  hill ; 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun, 
Night's  dreams  and  teirors,  every  one, 
Fled  from  the  brains  which  are  their  prey. 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each, 
Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends  and  not  our  own  ; 
The  million  rose  to  learn,  and  one  to  teach 
What  none  yet  ever  knew  or  can  be  known. 

And  many  rose 
Whose  woe  was  such  that  fear  became  desire; 
Melchior  and  Lionel  were  not  among  those  ; 
They  from  the  throng  of  men  had  stepped  aside, 
And  made  their  home  under  the  green  hillside. 
It  was  that  hill,  w^hose  intervening  brow 
Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisau's  envious  eye, 
Which  the  circumfluous  plain  waving  below, 
Like  a  wide  lake  of  green  fertility, 
With  streams  and  fields  and  marshes  bare, 
Divides  from  the  far  Apennines  —  which  lie 
Islanded  in  the  immeasurable  air. 


632  THE    BOAT. 

"  What  think  yoa,  as  she  lies  in  her  green  cove. 

Our  little  sleeping  boat  is  dreaming  of? 

If  morning  dreams  are  true,  why  I  should  guess 

That  she  was  dreaming  of  our  idleness. 

And  of  the  miles  of  watery  way 

We  should  have  led  her  by  this  time  of  day."  — 


Never  mind,"  said  Lionel, 


"  Give  care  to  the  winds,  they  can  bear  it  well 
About  yon  poplar  tops  ;  and  see 
The  white  clouds  are  driving  merrily. 
And  the  stars  we  miss  this  morn  will  light 
More  willingly  our  return  to-night. 
List,  my  dear  fellow,  the  breeze  blows  fair ; 
How  it  scatters  Dominic's  long  black  hair, 
Singing  of  us,  and  our  lazy  motions, 
If  I  can  guess  a  boat's  emotions."  — 

The  chain  ia  loosed,  the  sails  are  spread. 

The  living  breath  is  fresh  behind, 

As,  with  dews  and  sunrise  fed. 

Comes  the  laughing  morning  wind  : 

The  sails  are  full,  the  boat  makes  head 

Against  the  Serchio's  torrent  fierce. 

Then  flags  with  intermitting  course, 

And  hangs  upon  the  wave, 

Which  fervid  from  its  mountain  source 

Shallow,  smooth  and  strong,  doth  come.  — 

Swift  as  fire,  tempestuously 

It  sweeps  into  the  affrighted  sea  ; 

In  morning's  smile  its  eddies  coil. 

Its  billows  sparkle,  toss  and  boil. 

Torturing  all  its  quiet  light 

Into  columns  fierce  and  bright. 

The  Serchio,  twisting  forth 
Between  the  marble  barriers  which  it  clove 
At  Ripafratta,  leads  through  the  dread  chasm 
The  wave  that  died  the  death  which  lovers  love. 
Living  in  what  it  sought ;  as  if  this  spasm 
Had  not  yet  past,  the  toppling  mountains  cling, 
But  the  clear  stream  in  full  enthusiasm 
Pours  itself  on  the  plain,  until  wandering, 
Down  one  clear  path  of  effluence  crystalline 
Sends  its  clear  waves,  that  they  may  fling 
At  Amo's  feet  tribute  of  corn  and  wine  ; 
Then,  through  the  pestilential  deserts  wild 
Of  tangled  marsh  and  woods  of  stunted  fir, 
It  rushes  to  the  ocean. 

Juli/,  1821. 


LINES    TO    AN    INDIAN    AIR.  633 


THE  AZIOLA. 

"  Do  you  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry  ? 
Me  thinks  she  must  be  nigh"  — 

Said  Mary,  as  we  sate 
In  dusk,  ere  the  stars  were  lit,  or  candles  brought ; 

And  I,  who  thought 
This  Aziola  was  some  tedious  woman, 

Asked,  "  Who  is  Aziola  ?"     How  elate 
I  felt  to  know  that  it  was  nothing  human, 

No  mockery  of  myself  to  fear  and  hate  ! 

And  Mary  saw  my  soul, 
And  laughed  and  said,  "  Disquiet  yourself  not, 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  little  downy  owl." 

Sad  Aziola  !  many  an  eventide 

Thy  music  I  had  heard 
By  wood  and  stream,  meadow  and  mountain-side, 
And  fields  and  marshes  wide  — 

Such  as  nor  voice  nor  lute  nor  wind  nor  bird 

The  soul  ever  stirred  ; 
Unlike  and  far  sweeter  than  they  all : 
Sad  Aziola  !  from  that  moment  I 
Loved  thee  and  thy  sad  cry. 


LINES  TO  AN  INDIAN  AIR. 

I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ?  — 
To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  champak  odors  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart. 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 
O,  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  ray  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 


634  GOOD-NIGHT. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast : 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last ! 


MUSIC. 

I  PANT  for  the  music  which  is  divine. 
My  heart  in  its  thirst  is  a  dying  flower  ; 

Pour  forth  the  sound  like  enchanted  wine, 
Loosen  the  notes  in  a  silver  shower  ; 

Like  a  herbless  plain  for  the  gentle  rain, 

I  gasp,  I  faint,  till  they  wake  again. 

Let  me  drink  of  the  spirit  of  that  sweet  sound, 

More,  oh  more  !  I  am  thirsting  yet. 
It  loosens  the  serpent  which  care  has  bound 

Upon  my  heart,  to  stifle  it ; 
The  dissolving  strain,  through  every  vein, 
Passes  into  my  heart  and  brain. 

As  the  scent  of  a  violet  withered  up. 

Which  grew  by  the  brink  of  a  silver  lake. 

When  the  hot  noon  has  drained  its  dewy  cup. 
And  mist  there  was  none  its  thirst  to  slake  — 

And  the  violet  lay  dead  while  the  odor  flew 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  o'er  the  waters  blue  — 

As  one  who  drinks  from  a  charmed  cup 

Of  foaming  and  sparkling  and  murmuring  wine, 

Whom,  a  mighty  enchantress  filling  up, 
Invites  to  love  with  her  kiss  divine. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

Good-night?  ah!  no;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite  ; 

Let  us  remain  together  still. 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 
Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flig 
Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood, 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 


STANZAS. 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light. 

The  night  is  good  ;  because,  my  love, 
They  never  say  good-night. 


A  LAMENT. 

O  WORLD  !  O  life  !  O  time  1 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb. 

Trembling  at  that  where  T  had  stood  before, 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more  —  oh  never  more  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight ; 

Fresh  spring  and  summer  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more  —  oh,  never  more  ! 


STANZAS. 

The  serpent  is  shut  out  from  paradise, 

The  wounded  deer  must  seek  the  herb  no  more 

In  which  its  heart-cure  lies  : 
The  widowed  dove  must  cease  to  haunt  a  bower, 
Like  that  from  which  its  mate  with  feigned  sighs. 

Fled  in  the  April  hour. 
I  too  must  seldom  seek  again 
Near  happy  friends  a  mitigated  pain. 

Of  hatred  I  am  proud  —  with  scorn  content : 
IndiiFerence,  that  once  hurt  me,  now  is  grown 

Itself  indifferent. 
But,  not  to  speak  of  love,  pity  alone 
Can  break  a  spirit  already  more  than  bent. 

The  miserable  one 
Turns  the  mind's  poison  into  food  — 
Its  medicine  is  tears,  its  evil  good. 

Therefore  if  now  I  see  you  seldomer, 
Dear,  gentle  friend  !  know  that  I  only  fly 

Your  looks,  because  they  stir 
Griefs  that  should  sleep,  and  hopes  that  can  not  die : 
The  very  comfort  that  they  minister 

I  scarce  can  bear,  yet  I, 
So  deeply  is  the  arrow  gone. 
Should  quickly  perish  if  it  were  withdrawn. 


635 


636 


When  I  retarn  to  my  cold  home,  you  ask 
Why  I  am  not  as  I  have  ever  been. 

You  spoil  me  for  the  task 
Of  acting  a  forced  part  on  life's  dull  scene — 
Of  wearing  on  my  brow  the  idle  mask 

Of  author,  great  or  mean. 
In  the  world's  carnival  I  sought 
Peace  thus,  and  but  in  you  I  found  it  not. 

Full  half  an  hoar,  to-day,  I  tried  my  lot 
With  various  flowers,  and  every  one  still  said, 

"  She  loves  me loves  me  not."* 

And  if  this  meant  a  vision  long  since  fled  — 
If  it  meant  fortune,  fame  or  peace  of  thought  — 

If  it  meant  —  but  I  dread 
To  speak  what  you  may  know  too  well : 
Still  there  was  truth  in  the  sad  oracle. 

The  crane  o'er  seas  and  forests  seeks  her  home  ; 
No  bird  so  wild  but  has  its  quiet  nest, 

Whence  it  no  more  would  roam  ; 
The  sleepless  billows  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Burst  like  a  bursting  heart,  and  die  in  peace, 

And  thus  at  length  find  rest. 
Doubtless  there  is  a  place  of  peace 
Where  my  weak  heart  and  all  its  throbs  shall  cease. 

I  asked  her,  yesterday,  if  she  believed 
That  I  had  resolution.     One  who  had 

Would  ne'er  have  thus  relieved 
His  heart  with  words  —  bat  what  his  judgement  bade 
Would  do,  and  leave  the  scomer  unreprieved. 

These  verses  are  too  sad 
To  send  to  you,  but  that  I  know, 
Happy  yourself,  you  feel  another's  woe. 


SONNET. 

POLITICAL   GREATNESS. 

Nor  happiness  nor  majesty  nor  fame 
Nor  peace  nor  strength  nor  skill  in  arms  or  arts 
Shepherd  those  herds  whom  tyranny  makes  tame 
Verse  echoes  not  one  beating  of  their  hearts. 
History  is  but  the  shadow  of  their  shame, 
Art  vails  her  glass,  or  from  the  pageant  starts. 
As  to  oblivion  their  bhnd  millions  fleet 
Staining  that  heaven  with  obscene  imagery 
Of  their  own  likeness.     What  are  numbers  knit 


DIRGE    FOR    THE    YEAR.  637 

By  force  or  custom  ?    Man  who  man  would  be, 
Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself ;  in  it 
Must  be  supreme,  establishing  his  throne 
On  vanquished  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  being  himself  alone. 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR. 

Orphan  Hours,  the  Year  is  dead, 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep  ! 

Merry  Hours,  smile  instead, 
For  the  Year  is  but  asleep. 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping. 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  white  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  dead-cold  Year  to-day  ; 
Solemn  Hours  !  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 

So  the  breath  of  these  rude  Days 
Rocks  the  Year  :  be  calm  and  mild. 

Trembling  Hours  ;  she  will  arise 

With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 

January  gray  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave  ; 

February  bears  the  bier, 
March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 

And  April  weeps  —  but,  O  ye  Hours  ! 

Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1822. 


THE  ZUCCA.* 

Summer  was  dead,  and  Autumn  was  expiring, 
And  infant  Winter  laughed  upon  the  land 

All  cloudlessly  and  cold  ;  when  I,  desiring 
More  in  this  world  than  any  understand, 

Wept  o'er  the  beauty,  which,  like  sea  retiring. 
Had  left  the  earth  bare  as  the  waveworn  sand 

Of  my  poor  heart,  and  o'er  the  grass  and  flowers 

Pale  for  the  falsehood  of  the  flattering  hoars. 

Summer  was  dead,  but  I  yet  lived  to  weep 

The  instability  of  all  but  weeping  ; 
And  on  the  earth  lulled  in  her  ^vinter  sleep 

I  woke,  and  envied  her  as  she  was  sleeping. 
Too  happy  Earth  !  over  thy  face  shall  creep 

The  wakening  vernal  airs,  until  thou,  leaping 
From  unremembered  dreams  shalt  [  ] 

No  death  divide  thy  immortality. 

I  loved —  O  no,  I  mean  not  one  of  ye, 

Or  any  earthly  one,  though  ye  are  dear 
As  human  heart  to  human  heart  may  be  ; 

I  loved,  1  know  not  what —  but  this  low  sphere, 
And  all  that  it  contains,  contains  not  thee, 

Thou,  whom  seen  nowhere,  I  feel  everywhere, 
Dim  object  of  my  soul's  idolatry. 

By  heaven  and  earth,  from  all  whose  shapes  thou  flowest, 
Neither  to  be  contained,  delayed  or  hidden, 

Making  divine  the  loftiest  and  the  lowest, 
When  for  a  moment  thou  art  not  forbidden 

To  live  within  the  life  which  thou  bestowest. 
And  leaving  noblest  things,  vacant  and  chidden, 

*  Pumpkin. 


THE    ZUCCA.  639 

Cold  as  a  corpse  after  the  spirit's  flight, 
Blank  as  the  sun  after  the  birth  of  Night. 

In  winds  and  trees  and  streams  and  all  things  common, 

In  music  and  the  sweet  unconscious  tone 
Of  animals,  and  voices  which  are  human, 

Meant  to  express  some  feelings  of  their  own, 
In  the  soft  motions  and  rare  smile  of  w^oman. 

In  flowers  and  leaves,  and  in  the  fresh  grass  shown, 
Or  dying  in  the  autumn,  I  the  most 
Adore  thee  present  or  lament  thee  lost. 

And  thus  I  went,  lamenting  when  I  saw 

A  plant  upon  the  river's  margin  lie, 
Like  one  who  loved  beyond  his  nature's  law. 

And  in  despair  had  cast  him  down  to  die  : 
Its  leaves  which  had  outlived  the  frost,  the  thaw. 

Had  blighted  as  a  heart  which  Hatred's  eye 
Can  blast  not,  but  which  Pity  kills  ;  the  dew 
Lay  on  its  spotted  leaves  like  tears  too  true. 

The  Heavens  had  wept  upon  it,  but  the  Earth 
Had  crushed  it  on  her  unmaternal  breast 


I  bore  it  to  my  chamber,  and  I  planted 
It  in  a  vase  full  of  the  lightest  mould  ; 

The  winter  beams  which  out  of  heaven  slanted 
Fell  through  the  window-panes,  disrobed  of  cold. 

Upon  its  leaves  and  flowers  ;  the  star  which  panted 
In  evening  for  the  Day,  whose  car  has  rolled 

Over  the  horizon's  wave,  with  looks  of  light 

Smiled  on  it  from  the  threshold  of  the  night. 

The  mitigated  influences  of  air 

And  light  revived  the  plant,  and  from  it  grew 
Strong  leaves  and  tendrils,  and  its  flowers  fair. 

Full  as  a  cup  with  the  vine's  burning  dew, 
O'erflowed  with  golden  colors  ;  an  atmosphere 

Of  vital  warmth  infolded  it  anew, 
And  every  impulse  sent  to  every  part 
The  unbeheld  pulsations  of  its  heart. 

Well  might  the  plant  grow  beautiful  and  strong, 
Even  if  the  sun  and  air  had  smiled  not  on  it ; 

For  one  wept  o'er  it  all  the  winter  long 

Tears  pure  as  heaven's  rain,  which  fell  upon  it 

Hour  after  hour  ;  for  sounds  of  softest  song 
Mixed  with  the  stringed  melodies  that  won  it 

To  leave  the  gentle  lips  on  which  it  slept. 

Had  loosed  the  heart  of  him  who  sat  and  wept. 


640       THE    MAGNETIC    LADY    TO    HER    PATIENT. 

Had  loosed  his  heart,  and  shook  the  leaves  and  flowers 
On  which  he  wept,  the  while  the  savage  storm 

Waked  by  the  darkest  of  December's  hours 

Was  raving  round  the  chamber  hushed  and  warm  ; 

The  birds  were  shivering  in  their  leafless  bovvers, 
The  fish  were  frozen  in  the  pools,  the  form 

Of  every  summer  plant  was  dead  [  ] 

WhUethia  *  *  *  * 

January,  1822. 


THE  MAGNETIC  LADY  TO  HER  PATIENT. 

Sleep  on  !  sleep  on  !  forget  thy  pain  : 

My  hand  is  on  thy  brow, 
My  spirit  on  thy  brain  ; 
My  pity  on  thy  heart,  poor  friend  ! 

And  from  my  fingers  flow 
The  powers  of  life,  and  like  a  sign, 

Seal  thee  from  thine  hour  of  woe  : 
And  brood  on  thee,  but  may  not  blend 
With  thine. 

Sleep  on  !  sleep  on  !  I  love  thee  not ; 

But  when  I  think  that  he 
Who  made  and  makes  my  lot 
As  full  of  flowers  as  thine  of  weeds, 

Might  have  been  lost  like  thee ; 
And  that  a  hand  which  was  not  mine, 

Might  then  have  chased  his  agony 
As  I  another's  —  my  heart  bleeds 
For  thine. 


Sleep,  sleep,  and  with  the  slumber  of 

The  dead  and  the  unborn  : 
Forget  thy  life  and  woe  ; 
Forget  that  thou  must  wake  for  ever ; 

Forget  the  world's  dull  scorn  ; 
Forget  lost  health,  and  the  divine 

Feelings  that  die  in  youth's  brief  morn 
And  forget  me,  for  I  can  never 
Be  thine. 


Like  a  cloud  big  with  a  May  shower. 
My  soul  weep.s  healing  rain 

On  thee,  thou  withered  flower  ; 

It  breathes  mute  music  on  thy  sleep ; 
Its  odor  calms  thy  brain  ! 


WITH    A    GUITAR.  641 

Its  light  within  thy  gloomy  breast 

Speaks  like  a  second  youth  again. 
By  mine  thy  being  is  to  its  deep 
Possest. 

The  spell  is  done.     How  feel  you  now  1 

"Better — quite  well,"  replied 
The  sleeper.     What  would  do 
You  good  when  suffering  and  awake  ? 

What  cure  your  head  and  side  ?  — 
"  'Twould  kill  me  what  would  cure  my  pain  ; 

And  as  I  must  on  earth  abide 
Awhile,  yet  tempt  me  not  to  break 
My  chain !" 


WITH  A  GUITAR. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 
Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  winds  were  in  their  w^inter  sleep, 
Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind  swept  Apennine  ; 
And  dreaming  some  of  Autumn  past, 
And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast, 
And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 
And  some  of  songs  in  July  bow^ers, 
And  all  of  love  ;  and  so  this  tree  — 
O  that  such  our  death  may  be  !  — 
Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 
To  live  in  happier  form  again  ; 
From  which,  beneath  heaven's  fairest  star, 
The  artist  wrought  that  loved  guitar, 
And  taught  it  justly  to  reply. 
To  all  who  question  skillfully, 
In  language  gentle  as  its  own, 
Whispering  in  enamored  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells. 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 
For  it  had  learned  all  harmonies 
Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forest  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fountains  ; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills. 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  mumiuring  of  summer  seas, 
41 


642  AN    ARIETTE    FOR    MUSIC. 

And  pattering  rain  and  breathing  dew, 
And  airs  of  evening  ;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 
Which,  driven  in  its  diurnal  round, 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way  — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  can  not  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it. 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions  ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day  ; 
But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill. 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone, 
For  our  beloved  friend  alone. 


AN  ABIETTE  FOR  MUSIC. 

TO   A   LADY   SINGING   TO    HER   ACCOMPANIMENT    ON   THE    GUITAR. 

As  the  moon's  soft  splendor 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  heaven 
Is  thrown, 
So  thy  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  has  given 
Its  own. 

The  stars  will  awaken, 
Though  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later 
To-night ; 
No  leaf  will  be  shaken 
While  the  dews  of  thy  melody  scatter 
Delight. 

Though  the  sound  overpowers. 
Sing  again,  with  thy  sweet  voice  revealing 
A  tone 
Of  some  world  far  from  ours, 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 


TO    THE    QUEEN    OF    MY    HEART.  643 


TO  THE  aUEEN  OF  MY  HEART. 

Shall  we  roam,  my  love, 
To  the  twilight  grove, 

When  the  moon  is  rising  bright  ? 
Oh,  I'll  whisper  there, 
In  the  cool  night-air, 

What  I  dare  not  in  broad  daylight ! 

I'll  tell  thee  a  part 

Of  the  thoughts  that  start 

To  being  when  thou  art  nigh  ; 
And  thy  beauty,  more  bright 
Thau  the  stars'  soft  light, 
Shall  seem  as  a  weft  from  the  sky. 

When  the  pale  moonbeam 
On  tower  and  stream 

Sheds  a  flood  of  silver  sheen, 
How  I  love  to  gaze 
As  the  cold  ray  strays 

O'er  thy  face,  my  heart's  throned  queen ! 

Wilt  thou  roam  with  me 
To  the  restless  sea. 

And  hnger  upon  the  steep. 
And  list  to  the  flow 
Of  the  waves  below^ 

How  they  toss  and  roar  and  leap  ? 

Those  boiling  waves 
And  the  storm  that  raves 

At  night  o'er  their  foaming  crest, 
Resemble  the  strife 
That,  from  earliest  life, 

The  passions  have  waged  in  my  breast. 

O,  come  then  and  rove 
To  tl)e  sea  or  the  grove, 

When  the  moon  is  shining  bright, 
And  I'll  whisper  there, 
In  the  cool  night-air, 

What  I  dare  not  in  broad  daylight ! 


644       FRAGMENTS    OF    AN    UNFINISHED    DRAMA. 
FRAGMENTS 

OF   AN   UNFINISHED    DRAMA. 

The  following  fragments  are  part  of  a  drama,  undertaken  for  the 
amusement  of  the  individuals  who  composed  our  intimate  society,  but 
left  unfinished.  I  liave  preserved  a  sketch  of  the  story  as  far  as  it 
had  been  shadowed  out  in  the  poet's  mind. 

An  enchantress,  living  in  one  of  the  islands  of  the  Indian  Archipel- 
ago, saves  the  life  of  a  pirate,  a  man  of  savage  but  noble  nature.  She 
becomes  enamored  of  him  ;  and  he,  inconstant  to  his  mortal  love,  for 
awhile  returns  her  passion  ;  but  at  length,  recalling  the  memory  of 
her  whom  he  left,  and  who  laments  his  loss,  he  escapes  from  the  en- 
chanted island  and  returns  to  his  lady.  His  mode  of  life  makes  him 
again  go  to  sea,  and  the  enchantress  seizes  the  opportunity  to  bring 
him,  by  a  spirit-brewed  tempest,  back  to  her  island. 

Scene  —  Before  the  Cavern  of  the  Indian  Enchantress. —  The 
Enchantress  comes  forth. 

ENCHANTRESS. 

He  came  like  a  dream  in  the  dawn  of  life, 

He  fled  like  a  shadow  before  its  noon  ; 
He  is  gone,  and  my  peace  is  turned  to  strife, 
And  I  wander  and  wane  like  the  weary  moon. 
O  sw^eet  Echo,  wake. 
And  for  my  sake 
Make  answer  the  while  my  heart  shall  break  ! 

Btil  my  heart  has  a  music  which  Echo's  lips, 

Though  tender  and  true,  yet  can  answer  not, 

And  the  shadow  that  moves  in  the  soul's  eclipse 

Can  return  not  the  kiss  by  his  now  forgot ; 

Sweet  lips  !  he  who  hath 

On  my  desolate  path 

Cast  the  darkness  of  absence,  worse  than  death ! 


The  Enchantress  makes  her  spell :  she  is  answered  by  a  Spirit. 

SPIRIT. 

Within  the  silent  centre  of  the  earth 

My  mansion  is  ;  where  I  have  lived  insphered 

From  the  beginning,  and  around  my  sleep 

Have  woven  all  the  w^ondrous  imagery 

Of  this  dim  spot,  which  mortals  call  the  world ; 

Infinite  depths  of  unknown  elements 

Massed  into  one  impenetrable  mask  ; 

Sheets  of  immeasurable  fire,  and  veins 

Of  gold  and  stone  and  adamantine  iron. 

And  as  a  vail  in  which  I  walk  through  heaven 

I  have  wrought  mountains,  seas,  waves  and  cloads, 


FRAGMENTS    OF    AN    UNFINISHED    DRAMA.       645 

And  lastly  light,  whose  interfusion  dawns 
In  the  dark  space  of  interstellar  air. 

A  good  spirit,  who  watches  over  the  pirate's  fate,  leads,  in  a  myste- 
rious manner,  the  lady  of  his  love  to  tlie  enchanted  isle.  She  is  ac- 
companied by  a  youth,  who  loves  her,  but  whose  passion  she  returns 
only  with  a  sisterly  affection.  The  ensuing  scene  takes  place  be- 
tween them  on  their  arrival  at  the  isle. 

INDIAN   YOUTH   AND    LADY. 
INDIAN. 

And  if  my  grief  should  still  be  dearer  to  me 
Than  all  the  pleasures  in  the  world  beside, 
Why  would  you  lighten  it  ?  — 

LADY. 

I  offer  only 
That  which  I  seek,  some  human  sympathy 
In  this  mysterious  island. 


Oh !  my  friend. 
My  sister,  my  beloved  !     What  do  I  say  ? 
My  brain  is  dizzy,  and  I  scarce  know  whether 
I  speak  to  thee  or  her. 

LADY. 

Peace,  perturbed  heart ! 
I  am  to  thee  only  as  thou  to  mine. 
The  passing  wind  which  heals  the  brow^  at  noon, 
And  may  strike  cold  into  the  breast  at  night. 
Yet  can  not  linger  where  it  soothes  the  most, 
Or  long  soothe  could  it  linger. 

INDIAN. 

But  you  said 
You  also  loved  ? 

LADY. 

Loved  !    Oh,  I  love.     Methinks 
This  world  of  love  is  fit  for  all  the  world, 
And  that  for  gentle  hearts  another  name 
Would  speak  of  gentler  thoughts  than  the  world  owns. 
I  have  loved. 

INDIAN. 

And  thou  lovest  not  ?     If  so 
Young  as  thou  art,  thou  canst  afford  to  weep. 

LADY. 

Oh  !  would  that  I  could  claim  exemption 
From  all  the  bitterness  of  that  sweet  name. 
I  loved,  I  love,  and  when  1  love  no  more 
Let  joys  and  grief  perish,  and  leave  despair 
To  ring  the  knell  of  youth.     He  stood  beside  me, 
The  embodied  vision  of  the  brightest  dream, 
Which  like  a  dawn  heralds  the  day  of  life ; 


646       FRAGMENTS    OF    AN    UNFINISHED    DRAMA. 

The  shadow  of  his  presence  made  my  world 

A  paradise.     All  familiar  things  he  touched, 

All  common  words  he  spoke,  became  to  me 

Like  forms  and  sounds  of  a  diviner  world. 

He  was  as  is  the  sun  in  his  fierce  youth, 

As  terrible  and  lovely  as  a  tempest ; 

He  came,  and  went,  and  left  me  what  I  am. 

Alas !     Why  must  I  think  how  oft  we  two 

Have  sate  together  near  the  river  springs, 

Under  the  green  pavilion  which  the  willow 

Spreads  on  the  floor  of  the  unbroken  fountain, 

Strewn  by  the  nurslings  that  linger  there, 

Over  the  islet  paved  with  flowers  and  moss, 

While  the  musk-rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 

Showered  on  us,  and  the  dove  mourned  in  the  pine. 

Sad  prophetess  of  sorrows  not  her  own. 

INDIAN, 

Your  breath  Is  like  soft  music,  your  words  are 
The  echoes  of  a  voice  ■which  on  my  heart 
Sleeps  like  a  melody  of  early  days. 
But  as  you  said  — 

LADY. 

He  was  so  awful,  yet 
So  beautiful  in  mystery  and  terror. 
Calming  me  as  the  loveliness  of  heaven 
Soothes  the  unquiet  sea ;  and  yet  not  so, 
For  he  seemed  stormy,  and  would  often  seem 
A  quenchless  sun  masked  in  portentous  clouds  ; 
For  such  his  thoughts  and  even  his  actions  were  ; 
But  he  was  not  of  them,  nor  they  of  him, 
But  as  they  hid  his  splendor  from  the  earth. 
Some  said  he  was  a  man  of  blood  and  peril, 
And  steeped  in  bitter  infamy  to  the  lips. 
More  need  was  there  1  should  be  innocent, 
More  need  that  I  should  be  most  true  and  kind, 
And  much  more  need  that  there  should  be  found  one 
To  share  remorse  and  scorn  and  solitude 
And  all  the  ills  that  wait  on  those  who  do 
The  tasks  of  ruin  in  the  world  of  life. 
He  fled,  and  I  have  followed  him. 

INDIAN. 

Such  a  one 
Is  he  who  was  the  winter  of  my  peace. 
But,  fairest  stranger,  when  didst  thou  depart 
From  the  far  hills,  where  rise  the  springs  of  India  ? 
How  didst  thou  pass  the  intervening  sea  ? 

LADY. 

If  I  be  sure  I  am  not  dreaming  now, 
I  should  not  doubt  to  say  it  was  a  dream. 


THE    PINE    FOREST.  647 


THE  ISLE. 

There  was  a  little  lawny  islet 
By  anemone  and  violet, 

Like  mosaic,  paven  : 
And  its  roof  was  flowers  and  leaves, 
Which  the  summer's  breath  enweaves, 
"Where  nor  sun  nor  showers  nor  breeze 
Pierce  the  pines  and  tallest  trees, 

Each  a  gem  engraven. 
Girt  by  many  an  azure  wave 
With  which  the  clouds  and  mountains  pave 

A  lake's  blue  chasm. 


THE  PINE  FOREST 

OF     THE     CASCINE,     NEAR    PISA. 

Dearest,  best  and  brightest, 

Come  away 
To  the  woods  and  to  the  fields  ! 
Dearer  than  this  fairest  day. 
Which  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  in  the  brake. 

The  eldest  of  the  hours  of  spring, 
Into  the  winter  wandering 
Looks  upon  the  leafless  wood ; 
And  the  banks  all  bare  and  rude 
Found  it  seems  this  halcyon  mom, 
In  February's  bosom  born. 
Bending  from  heaven,  in  azure  mirth. 
Kissed  the  cold  forehead  of  the  earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free  ; 
And  w^aked  to  music  all  the  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  rigid  mountains, 
And  made  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Radiant  sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  w^oods  and  the  plains. 
To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  the  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves, 


648  THE    PINE    FOREST. 

Sapless,  gray  and  ivy  dun, 
Round  stones  that  never  kiss  the  suu, 
To  the  sandhills  of  the  sea. 
Where  the  earliest  violets  be. 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead, 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise, 
And  do  thy  wonted  work  and  trace 
The  epitaph  of  glory  fled  : 
For  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 

"We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 
That  skirts  the  ocean's  foam, 

The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 
The  tempest  in  its  home. 

The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep. 
The  clouds  were  gone  to  play. 

And  on  the  w^oods  and  on  the  deep 
The  smile  of  Heaven  lay. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  day  were  one 
Sent  from  beyond  the  skies. 

Which  shed  to  earth  above  the  sun 
A  light  of  paradise. 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste. 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude. 

With  stems  like  serpents  interlaced. 

How  calm  it  was !  —  the  silence  there 
By  such  a  chain  was  bound. 

That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 
Made  stiller  by  her  sound 

The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  w^e  drew^, 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 

It  seemed  that  from  the  remotest  seat 
Of  the  white  mountain's  waste, 

To  the  bright  flower  beneath  our  feet, 
A  magic  circle  traced  ; 

A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thinking  silent  life, 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife. — 


THE    PINE    FOREST.  649 

For  still  it  seemed  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there, 
Was  one  whose  being  filled  with  love 

The  breathless  atmosphere. 

Were  not  the  crocuses  that  grew 

Under  that  ilex-tree 
As  beautiful  in  scent  and  hue 

As  ever  fed  the  bee  ? 


We  stood  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough, 
And  each  seemed  like  a  sky 

Gulfed  iu  a  world  below ; 

A  purple  firmament  of  light, 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay. 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night, 

And  clearer  than  the  day  — 

In  which  the  massy  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  waving  there. 

Like  one  beloved,  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  that  clear  truth  expressed. 

There  lay  far  glades  and  neighboring  lawn, 
And  through  the  dark-green  crowd 

The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 
Under  a  speckled  cloud. 

Sweet  views,  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen. 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 

And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

Within  an  Elysium  air. 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  silence  sleeping  there. 

Until  a  wandering  wind  crept  by. 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  my  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  thy  bright  image  out. 


650  LINES. 

For  thou  art  good  and  dear  and  kind. 

The  forest  ever  green, 
But  less  of  peace  in  S 'a  mind, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 

ftUruari/  %,  1822. 


LINES 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  — 

When  the  clond  is  scattered. 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendor 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute  : 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell. 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest : 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 

O  Love  !  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home  and  your  bier  ? 

Its  passions  w^ill  rock  thee, 
As  tlie  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eau'le  home 

Leave  the  naked  to  lauarhter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 


FRAGMENTS.  651 


A  SONG. 


A  WIDOW  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  foi-est  bare, 
No  flow^er  upon  the  ground, 

And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 


FRAGMENTS. 


I  AM  drunk  with  the  honey  wine 
Of  the  moon-unfolded  eglantine. 
Which  fairies  catch  in  hyacinth-buds  : 
The  bats,  the  dormice  and  the  moles 
Sleep  in  the  walls  or  under  the  sward 
Of  the  desolate  castle-yard  ; 
And  when  'tis  spilt  on  the  summer  earth 
Or  its  fumes  arise  among  the  dew, 
Their  jocund  dreams  are  full  of  mirth, 
They  gibber  their  joy  in  sleep  ;  for  few 
Of  the  fairies  bear  those  bowls  so  new  ! 

II. 

And  who  feels  discord  now  or  sorrow  ? 

Love  is  the  univer.se  to-day  — 
These  are  the  slaves  of  dim  To-morrow, 

Darkening  Life's  labyrinthine  way. 

in. 

And  where  is  Truth  ?     On  tombs  ?  for  such  to  thee 
Has  been  my  heart  —  and  thy  dead  memory 
Has  lain  from  childhood,  many  a  changeful  year  — 
Unchangingly  preserved  and  buried  there. 

IV.  — TO  WILLIAM  SHELLEY. 

Thy  little  footsteps  on  the  sands 
Of  a  remote  and  lonely  shore  ; 
The  twinkling  of  thine  infiint  hands 
Where  now  the  worm  will  feed  no  moru : 
Thv  mingled  look  of  love  and  glee 
When  we  returned  to  gaze  on  thee. 


652  FRAGMENTS. 


Ye  gentle  visitations  of  calm  thought  — 
Moods  like  the  memories  of  happier  earth, 
Which  come  arrayed  in  thoughts  of  little  "v^'orth, 

Like  stars  in  clouds  by  the  weak  winds  enwrought, 
But  that  the  clouds  depart  and  stars  remain, 
While  they  remain,  and  ye,  alas  !  depart. 

VI. 

Through  the  mossy  sods  and  stone, 

Rain  and  streamlet,  hurry  down 

A  coming  song,  a  rushing  throng. 

Beneath  the  vault  of  heaven  is  blown  ; 

Sweet  notes  of  love,  the  speaking  tone 

Of  this  day  of  paradise, 

Resound  aronnd,  beneath,  above  ; 

All  we  hope  and  all  we  love 

Finds  a  voice  in  the  sweet  strain 

W  hich  wakens  hill  and  wood  and  vale  !  — 

VII.— ON  KEATS, 

WHO  DESIRED    THAT   ON   HIS   TOMB    SHOULD    BE    INSCRIBED 

"  Here  lieth  one  w^hose  name  was  writ  on  water  !" 
But  ere  the  breath  that  could  erase  it  blew, 
Death,  in  remorse  for  that  fell  slaughter  — 
Death,  the  immortalizing  writer  —  flew 
Athwart  the  stream,  and  Time's  monthless  torrent  grew 
,       A  scroll  of  crystal,  blazoning  the  name 
Of  Adonais ! — 

VIII. 

He  wanders,  like  a  day-appearing  dream, 
Through  the  dim  wildernesses  of  the  mind  ; 

Through  desert  woods  and  tracts,  which  seem 
Like  Ocean,  homeless,  boundless,  unconfined. 

IX. 

The  rude  wind  is  singing. 
The  dirge  of  the  music  dead, 

The  cold  worms  are  clinging 
Where  kisses  were  lately  fed, 

X. 

What  art  thou,  Presumptuous,  who  profanest 
The  wreath  to  mighty  poets  only  due  ? 

Even  while  like  a  forgotten  moon  thou  wanest. 
Touch  not  those  leaves  which  for  the  eternal  few, 

Who  wander  o'er  the  paradise  of  fame, 
In  sacred  dedication  ever  grew  : 

One  of  the  crowd  thou  art  without  a  name. 


CHARLES    THE    FIRST.  653 

Ah  !  friend,  'tis  the  false  laurel  that  I  wear ; 

Bright  though  it  seem,  it  is  not  the  same 
As  that  which  bound  Milton's  immortal  hair; 

Its  dew  is  poison,  and  the  hopes  that  quicken 
Under  its  chilling  shade,  though  seeming  fair. 

Are  flowers  which  die  almost  before  they  sicken. 

XI. 

When  soft  winds  and  sunny  skies 

With  the  green  earth  harmonize. 

And  the  young  and  dewy  dawn, 

Bold  as  an  unhunted  fawn, 

Up  the  windless  heaven  is  gone  — 

Laugh  —  for  ambushed  in  the  day, 

Clouds  and  whirlwinds  watch  their  prey. 

And  that  I  walk  thus  proudly  crowned  withal 

Is  that  'tis  my  distinction  ;  if  I  fall, 

I  shall  not  weep  out  of  the  vital  day. 

To-morrow  dust,  nor  wear  a  dull  decay. 

XII.— EPITAPH. 
These  are  two  friends  whose  lives  were  undivided, 
So  let  their  memory  be,  now  they  have  glided 
Under  the  grave  ;  let  not  their  bones  be  parted. 
For  their  two  hearts  in  life  were  single-hearted. 


CHARLES  THE  FIRST. 

A   FRAGMENT. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.—  The  Pageant  to  celebrate  the  arrival  of  tJie  Queen. 

A   PURSUIVANT. 

Place  for  the  marshal  of  the  masque  '. 

FIRST   SPEAKER. 

What  thinkest  thou  of  this  quaint  masque,  which  turns 
Like  morning  from  the  shadow  of  the  night. 
The  night  to  day,  and  London  to  a  place 
Of  peace  and  joy  ? 

SECOND   SPEAKER. 

And  hell  to  heaven. 
Eight  years  are  gone. 

And  they  seem  hours,  since  in  this  populous  street 
I  trod  on  grass  made  green  by  summer's  rain, 
For  the  red  plague  kept  state  within  that  palace 


654  CHARLES    THE    FIRST. 

Where  now  reigns  vanity  —  in  nine  years  more 
The  roots  will  be  refreshed  with  civil  blood  ; 
And  thank  the  mercy  of  insulted  Heaven 
That  sin  and  wrongs  wound  as  an  orphan's  cry, 
The  patience  of  the  great  Avenger's  ear. 

THIRD    SPEAKER  (a  youth). 

Yet,  father,  'tis  a  happy  sight  to  see, 

Beautiful,  innocent  and  unforbidden 

By  God  or  man  ;  'tis  like  the  bright  procession 

Of  skyey  visions  in  a  solemn  dream 

From  which  men  wake  as  from  a  paradise, 

And  draw  new  strength  to  tread  the  thorns  of  life. 

If  God  be  good,  wherefore  should  this  be  evil  ? 

And  if  this  be  not  evil,  dost  thou  not  draw 

Unseasonable  poison  from  the  flowers 

Which  bloom  so  rarely  in  this  barren  world  ? 

Oh,  kill  these  bitter  thoughts,  which  make  the  present 

Dark  as  the  future  !  — 

When  avarice  and  tyranny,  vigilant  fear, 
And  open-eyed  conspiracy,  lie  sleeping 
As  on  hell's  threshold  ;  and  all  gentle  thoughts 
W^aken  to  worship  him  who  giveth  joys 
With  his  own  gift. 

SECOND   SPEAKER. 

How  young  art  thou  in  this  old  age  of  time  ! 

How  green  in  this  gray  world  !     Canst  thou  not  think 

Of  change  in  that  low  scene,  in  which  thou  art 

Not  a  spectator  but  an  actor  ? 

The  day  that  dawns  in  fire  will  die  in  storms. 

Even  though  the  noon  be  calm.     My  travel's  done ; 

Before  the  whirlwind  wakes  I  shall  have  found 

My  inn  of  lasting  rest,  but  thou  must  still 

Be  journeying  on  in  this  inclement  air. 

«  «  «  «  »  « 

FIRST    SPEAKER. 

That 
Is  the  archbishop. 

SECOND   SPEAKER. 

Rather  say  the  pope. 
London  will  be  soon  his  Rome  :  he  walks 
As  if  he  trod  upon  the  heads  of  men. 
He  looks  elate,  drunken  with  blood  and  gold  ; 
Beside  liim  moves  the  Babylonian  woman 
Invisibly,  and  with  her  as  with  his  shadow, 
Mitred  adulterer  !  he  is  joined  in  sin. 
Which  tnrns  Heaven's  milk  of  mercy  to  revenge. 

ANOTHER  CITIZEN  (lifting  up  his  cyesj 
Good  Lord  !  rain  it  down  upon  him  ! 
Amid  her  ladies  walks  the  papist  queen, 


CHARLES    THE    FIRST. 

As  if  her  nice  feet  scorned  our  English  earth. 

There's  old  Sir  Henry  Vane,  the  earl  of  Pemhroke, 

Lord  Essex  and  Lord  Keeper  Coventry, 

And  otliers  who  made  base  their  English  breed 

By  vile  participation  of  their  honors 

With  papists,  atheists,  tyrants  and  apostates. 

When  lawyers  mask,  'tis  tkne  for  honest  men 

To  strip  the  vizor  from  their  purposes. 


FOURTH  SPEAKER  (a  pursuivantj. 
Give  place,  give  place  ! 
You  torch-bearers  advance  to  the  great  gate. 
And  then  attend  the  marshal  of  the  masque 
Into  the  royal  presence. 

FJFTH  SPEAKER  fa  law  stvdent). 

What  thinkest  thou 

Of  this  quaint  show  of  ours,  my  aged  friend  ! 

FIRST    SPEAKKR. 

I  will  not  think  but  that  our  country's  wounds 
May  yet  be  healed.     The  king  is  just  and  gracious, 
Though  wicked  counsels  now  pervert  his  will: 
These  once  cast  off — 

SECOND    SPEAKER. 

As  adders  cast  their  skins 
And  keep  their  venom,  so  kings  often  change  ; 
Councils  and  councillors  hang  on  one  another, 
Hiding  the  loathsome  [  ] 

Like  the  base  patchwork  of  a  leper's  rags. 

THIRD   SPEAKER. 

Oh.  Still  those  dis.sonant  thoughts  !  —  List !  loud  mtKie 
Grows  on  the  enchanted  air  !     And  see,  the  torches 
Restle.ssiy  flashing,  and  tiie  crowd  divided 
Like  waves  before  an  admiral's  prow  ♦ 

•  ••*♦• 

ANOTHER  SPEAKER. 

Give  place  — 
To  the  marshal  of  the  masque  ! 

THIRD    SPEAKER. 

How  glorious !     See  those  thronging  chariots 
Rolling  like  painted  clouds  before  tlie  wind  : 

Some  are 
Like  curved  shells  dyed  by  the  azure  depths 
Of  Indian  seas  ;  some  like  the  newborn  moon  ; 
And  some  like  cars  in  which  the  Romans  climbed 
(Canopied  by  Victory's  eagle-wings  outspread) 
The  Ciipitolian.     See  how  gloriously 
Tlie  mettled  horses  in  the  torchlight  stir 
Their  gallant  riders,  while  they  check  their  pride, 
Like  shapes  of  some  diviner  element ! 


655 


656  CHARLES    THE    FIRST. 

SECOND    SPEAKER. 

Ay,  there  they  are  — 
Nobles  and  sons  of  nobles,  patentees, 
Monopolists  and  stewards  of  this  poor  farm, 
On  whose  lean  sheep  sit  the  prophetic  crows. 
Here  is  the  pomp  that  strips  the  houseless  orphan, 
Here  is  the  pride  that  breaks  the  desolate  heart. 
These  are  the  lilies  glorious  as  Solomon, 
Who  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  —  unless 
It  be  the  webs  they  catch  poor  rogues  withal. 
Here  is  the  surfeit  which  to  them  who  earn 
The  niggard  wages  of  the  earth,  scarce  leaves 
The  tithe  that  will  support  them  till  they  crawl 
Back  to  its  cold  hard  bosom.     Here  is  health 
Followed  by  grim  disease,  glory  by  shame, 
Waste  by  lame  famine,  w^ealth  by  squalid  want. 
And  England's  sin  by  England's  punishment. 
And,  as  the  effect  pursues  the  cause  forgone, 
Lo,  giving  substance  to  my  words,  behold 
At  once  the  sign  and  the  thing  signified  — 
A  troop  of  cripples,  beggars  and  lean  outcasts 
Horsed  upon  stumbling  shapes,  carted  with  dung, 
Dragged  for  a  day  from  cellars  and  low  cabins 
And  rotten  hiding-holes  to  point  the  moral 
Of  this  presentiment,  and  bring  up  the  rear 
Of  painted  pomp  with  misery  ! 

SPEAKER. 

'Tisbut 
The  anti-masque,  and  serves  as  discords  do 
In  sweetest  music.     Who  would  love  May  flowers 
If  they  succeeded  not  to  Winter's  flaw  ; 
Or  day  unchanged  by  night ;  or  joy  itself 
Without  the  touch  of  sorrow  ? 


SCENE  n. 
A  Chamber  in  Whitehall. 

Enter  the  KING,  QUEEN,  LAUD,  WENTWORTH,  and  ARCHY. 
KING. 

Thanks,  gentlemen.     I  heartily  accept 

This  token  of  your  service  :  your  gay  masque 

Was  performed  gallantly. 

QUEEN. 

And,  gentlemen, 
Call  your  poor  queen  your  debtor.     Your  quaint  pageant 
Rose  on  me  like  the  figures  of  past  years. 
Treading  their  still  path  back  to  infancy. 


CHARLES    THE    FIRST.  657 

More  beautiful  and  mild  as  they  draw  nearer 
The  quiet  cradle.     I  could  have  almost  wept 
To  think  I  was  in  Paris,  where  these  shows 
Are  well  devised  —  such  as  I  was  ere  yet 
My  young  heart  shared  with  [  ]  the  task, 

The  careful  weight  of  this  great  monarchy. 
There,  gentlemen,  between  the  sovereign's  pleasure 
And  that  which  it  regards,  no  clamor  lifts 
Its  proud  interposition. 


KING. 

My  lord  of  Canterbury  ! 

ARCHY. 

The  fool  is  here. 

LAUD. 

I  crave  permission  of  your  majesty 
To  order  that  this  insolent  fellow  be 
Chastised  :  he  mocks  the  sacred  character. 
Scoffs  at  the  stake,  and  — 


What,  my  Archy; 
He  mocks  and  mimics  all  he  sees  and  hears, 
Yet  with  a  quaint  and  graceful  license.  —  Pritliee 
For  this  once  do  not  as  Prynne  would,  were  he 
Primate  of  England, 

He  lives  in  his  own  world  ;  and,  like  a  parrot, 
Hung  in  his  gilded  pri.son  from  the  window 
Of  a  queen's  bower  over  the  public  way, 
Blasphemes  with  a  bird's  mind  :  his  words,  like  arrows 
W  hich  know  no  aim  beyond  the  archer's  wit, 
Strike  sometimes  what  eludes  philosopliy. 

QUEEN. 

Go,  sirrah,  and  repent  of  your  offense 

Ten  minutes  in  the  rain  :  be  it  your  penance 

To  bring  news  how  the  world  goes  there.    Poor  Archy ! 

He  weaves  about  himself  a  world  of  mirth 

Out  of  tliis  wreck  of  ours. 

LAUD, 

I  take  with  patience,  as  my  Master  did. 
All  scoffs  permitted  from  above. 

KING. 

My  lord, 
Pray  overlook  these  papers.     Afchy's  words 
Had  wings,  but  these  have  talons. 

QUEEN. 

And  the  lion 
That  wears  them  must  be  tamed.     My  dearest  lord. 


658  CHARLES    THE    FIRST. 

I  see  the  newborn  courage  in  your  eye 
Armed  to  strike  dead  the  spirit  of  the  time. 


Do  thou  persist :  for,  faint  but  in  resolve, 

And  it  were  better  thou  hadst  still  remained 

The  slave  of  thine  own  slaves,  who  tear  like  curs 

The  fugitive,  and  flee  from  the  pursuer ; 

And  Opportunity,  that  empty  wolf 

Flies  at  his  throat  who  falls.     Subdue  thy  actions 

Even  to  the  disposition  of  thy  purpose. 

And  be  that  tempered  as  the  Ebro's  steel ; 

And  banish  weak-eyed  Mercy  to  the  vs^eak. 

Whence  she  will  greet  thee  with  a  gift  of  peace, 

And  not  betray  thee  w^ith  a  traitor's  kiss. 

And  when  she  keeps  the  company  of  rebels. 

Who  think  that  she  is  Fear.     This  do,  lest  we 

Should  fall  as  from  a  glorious  pinnacle 

In  a  bright  dream,  and  wake  as  from  a  dream 

Out  of  our  worshiped  state. 


LAUT), 

*  *  *  And  if  this  ."suffice  not. 

Unleash  the  sword  and  fire,  that  in  their  thirst 
They  may  lick  up  that  scum  of  schismatics. 
I  laugh  at  tho.se  weak  rebels  who,  desiring 
What  we  pos.sess,  still  prate  of  Christian  peace, 
As  if  those  dreadful  messengers  of  wrath, 
Which  play  the  part  of  God  'twixt  right  and  wrong 
Should  be  iet  loose  against  innocent  sleep 
Of  templed  cities  and  the  smiling  fields, 
For  some  poor  argument  of  policy 
W'hich  touches  our  own  profit  or  our  pride. 
Where  indeed  it  were  Christian  charity 
To  turn  the  cheek  even  to  the  smiter's  hand  : 
And  when  our  great  Redeemer,  when  our  God 
Is  scorned  in  his  immediate  ministers, 
They  talk  of  peace  ! 

Such  peace  as  Canaan  found,  let  Scotland  now. 
♦  *«♦«* 

QUEEN. 

My  beloved  lord, 

Have  you  not  noted  that  the  fool  of  late 

Has  lost  his  careless  mirth,  and  that  his  words 

Sound  like  the  echoes  of  our  saddest  fears  ? 

What  can  it  mean  ?    I  should  be  loth  to  think 

Some  factious  slave  had  tutored  him. 

KING. 

It  partly  is, 
That  our  minds  piece  the  vacant  intervals 
Of  bis  wild  words  with  their  own  fashioning  ; 
As  in  the  imagery  of  summer  clouds, 


CHARLES    THE    FIRST,  659 

Or  coals  in  the  winter  fire,  idlers  find 

The  perfect  shadows  of  their  teeming  tijoughts  : 

And  partly,  that  the  terrors  of  tlie  time 

Are  sown  by  wandering  Rumor  in  all  spirits  ; 

And  in  the  lightest  and  the  least,  may  best 

Be  seen  the  current  of  the  coming  wind. 

QUEEN. 

Your  brain  is  overwrought  with  these  deep  thoughts. 

Come,  I  will  sing  to  you  ;  let  us  go  try 

These  airs  from  Italy  —  and  you  shall  see 

A  cradled  miniature  of  yourself  asleep, 

Stamped  on  the  heart  by  never-erring  love  ; 

Liker  than  any  Vandyke  ever  made, 

A  pattern  to  the  unborn  age  of  thee, 

Over  Vihose  sweet  beauty  I  have  wej»t  for  joy 

A  thousand  times,  and  now  should  weep  for  sorrow, 

Did  1  not  think  that  after  we  were  dead 

Our  fortunes  would  spring  high  in  him.  and  that 

The  cares  we  waste  upon  our  heavy  crown 

Would  make  it  light  and  glorious  as  a  wreath 

Of  heaven's  beams  for  his  dear  innocent  brow. 

KING. 

Dear  Henrietta ! 

»  «  •  •  « 


SCENE  III. 

HAMPDEN,  PYM,  CROMWELL,  and  the  younger  VANE. 

HAMPDEN. 

England,  farewell !  thou,  who  hast  been  my  cradle, 

Shalt  never  be  my  dungeon  or  ray  grave ! 

I  held  what  I  inherited  in  thee 

As  pawn  for  that  inheritance  of  freedom 

Which  thou  ha.st  sold  for  thy  despoiler'e  smile  : 

How  can  I  call  thee  England,  or  my  country? 

Does  the  wind  hold  ? 

VANE. 

The  vanes  sit  steady 
Upon  the  abbey-towers.     The  silver  lightnings 
Of  the  evening  star,  spite  of  the  city's  smoke. 
Tell  that  the  north  wind  leigns  in  the  upper  air. 
Mark  too  that  flock  of  fleecy-winged  clouds 
Sailing  athwart  St.  Margaret's. 

HAMPDEN. 

Hail,  fleet  herald 
Of  Tempest !  that  wild  pilot  who  shall  guide 
Hearts  free  as  his.  to  realms  as  pure  as  tliee. 
Beyond  the  shot  of  Tyranny  !     And  thou. 
Fair  star,  wl»o.se  beam  lies  on  the  wide  Atlantic, 


660  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 

Athwart  its  zones  of  tempest  and  of  calm, 

Bright  as  the  path  to  a  beloved  home, 

O  light  us  to  the  isles  of  th'  evening  land  ! 

Like  floating  Edens,  cradled  in  the  glimmer 

Of  sunset,  through  the  distant  mist  of  years 

Tinged  by  departing  Hope,  they  gleam  !    Lone  regions. 

Where  Power's  poor  dupes  and  victims  yet  have  never 

Propitiated  the  savage  fear  of  kings 

With  purest  blood  of  noblest  hearts  ;  whose  dew 

Is  yet  unstained  with  tears  of  those  who  wake 

To  weep  each  day  the  wrongs  on  which  it  dawns  ; 

Whose  sacred  silent  air  owns  yet  no  echo 

Of  formal  blasphemies  ;  nor  impious  rites 

W^rest  man's  free  worship  from  the  God"  who  loves 

Toward  the  worm,  who  envies  us  his  love, 

Receive  thou,  young  [  ]  of  paradise, 

These  exiles  from  the  old  and  sinful  world  ! 

This  glorious  clime,  this  firmament,  whose  lights 

Dart  mitigated  influence  through  the  vail 

Of  pale-blue  Atmosphere  ;  whose  tears  keep  green 

The  pavement  of  this  moist  all-feeding  earth  ; 

This  vaporous  horizon,  whose  dim  round 

Is  bastioned  by  the  circumfluous  sea, 

Repelling  invasion  from  the  sacred  towers  ; 

Presses  upon  me  like  a  dungeon's  grate, 

A  low  dark  roof,  a  damp  and  narrow  vault : 

The  mighty  universe  becomes  a  cell 

Too  narrow  for  the  soul  that  owns  no  master. 

While  the  loathliest  spot 
Of  this  wide  prison,  England,  is  a  nest 
Of  cradled  peace  built  on  the  mountain-tops, 
To  w^hich  the  eagle  spirits  of  the  free. 

Which  range  through  heaven  and  earth,  and  scorn  the  storm 
Of  time,  and  gaze  upon  the  light  of  truth, 
Return  to  brood  over  the  [  ]  thoughts 

That  can  not  die,  and  may  not  be  repelled. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 

Swift  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task 

Of  glory  and  of  good,  the  Sun  sprang  forth 

Rejoicing  in  his  splendor,  and  the  mask 

Of  darkness  fell  from  the  awakened  Earth  — 
The  smokeless  altars  of  the  mountain-snows 
Flamed  above  crimson  clouds,  and  at  the  birth 

Of  light,  the  Ocean's  orison  arose. 

To  which  the  birds  tempered  their  matin  lay, 

All  flowers  in  field  or  forest  which  unclose 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE.  661 

Their  trembling  eyelids  to  the  kiss  of  day, 
Swinging  their  censers  in  the  element, 
With  orient  incense  lit  by  the  new  ray 

Burned  slow  and  inconsumably,  and  sent 
Their  odorous  sighs  up  to  the  smiling  air  ; 
And,  in  succession  due,  did  continent. 

Isle,  ocean,  and  all  things  that  in  them  wear 
The  form  and  character  of  mortal  mould, 
Rise  as  the  Sun  their  father  rose,  to  bear 

Their  portion  of  the  toil,  which  he  of  old 
Took  as  his  own  and  then  imposed  on  them : 
But  I,  whom  thoughts  which  must  remain  untold 

Had  kept  as  wakeful  as  the  stars  that  gem 
The  cone  of  night,  now  they  were  laid  asleep 
Stretched  my  faint  limbs  beneath  the  hoary  stem 

Which  an  old  chestnut  flung  athwart  the  steep 

Of  a  green  Apennine  :  before  me  fled 

The  night ;  behind  me  rose  the  day  ;  the  deep 

Was  at  my  feet,  and  heaven  above  my  head, 
When  a  strange  trance  over  my  fancy  grew 
Which  was  not  slumber,  for  the  shade  it  spread 

Was  so  transparent,  that  the  scene  came  through 
As  clear  as  when  a  vail  of  light  is  drawn 
O'er  evening  hills  they  glimmer  ;  and  I  knew 

That  I  had  felt  the  freshness  of  that  dawn, 
Bathed  in  the  same  cold  dew  my  brow  and  hair, 
And  sate  as  thus  upon  that  slope  of  lawn 

Under  the  selfsame  bough,  and  heard  as  there 
The  birds,  the  fountains  and  the  ocean  hold 
Sweet  talk  in  music  through  the  enamored  air, 
And  then  a  vision  on  my  brain  was  rolled. 


As  in  that  trance  of  wondrous  thought  I  lay. 
This  was  the  tenor  of  my  waking  dream  : 
Methought  I  sate  beside  a  public  way 

Thick-strewn  with  summer  dust,  and  a  great  stream 
Of  people  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
Numerous  as  gnats  upon  the  evening  gleam, 

All  hastening  onward,  yet  none  seemed  to  ktiow 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came,  or  why 
He  made  one  of  the  multitu<le,  and  so 


662  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 

Was  borne  amid  the  crowd,  as  through  the  sky 
One  of  the  million  leaves  of  summer's  bier  ; 
Old  age  and  youth,  manhood  and  infancy. 

Mixed  in  one  mighty  torrent  did  appear 

Some  flying  from  the  thing  they  feared,  and  some 

Seeking  the  object  of  another's  fear ; 

And  others  as  with  steps  toward  the  tomb, 

Pored  on  the  trodden  worms  that  crawled  beneath, 

And  others  mournfully  within  the  gloom 

Of  their  own  shadow^  walked  and  called  it  death  ; 
And  some  fled  from  it  as  it  v^^ere  a  ghost, 
Half  fainting  in  the  affliction  of  vain  breath : 

But  more  with  motions,  which  each  other  crost. 
Pursued  or  spurned  the  shadows  the  clouds  threw, 
Or  birds  within  the  noonday  ether  lost. 

Upon  that  path  where  flowers  never  grew, 
And  weary  with  vain  toil  and  faint  for  thirst, 
Heard  not  the  fountains,  whose  melodious  dew 

Out  of  their  mossy  cells  for  ever  burst ; 

Nor  felt  the  breeze  which  from  the  forest  told 

Of  grassy  paths  and  woods,  lawn-intertjpersed, 

With  over-arching  elms  and  caverns  cold, 

And  violet  banks  where  sweet  dreams  brood,  but  they 

Pursued  their  serious  folly  as  of  old. 

And  as  I  gazed,  methought  that  in  the  way 
The  throng  grew  wilder,  as  the  woods  of  June 
When  the  south  wind  shakes  the  extinguished  day, 

And  a  cold  glare  intenser  than  the  noon, 

But  icy  cold,  obscured  with  blinding  light 

The  sun,  as  he  the  stars.     Like  the  young  moon 

When  on  the  sunlit  limits  of  the  night 
Her  white  shell  trembles  amid  crimson  air. 
And  while  the  sleeping  tempest  gathers  might, 

Doth,  as  the  herald  of  its  coming,  bear 

The  ghost  of  its  dead  mother,  whose  dim  form 

Bends  in  dark  ether  from  her  infant's  chair, — 

So  came  a  chariot  on  the  silent  storm 

Of  its  own  rushing  splendor,  and  a  Shape 

So  sate  within,  as  one  whom  years  deform. 

Beneath  a  dusky  hood  and  double  cape. 
Crouching  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb, 
And  o'er  what  seemed  the  head  a  cloud-like  crape 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE.  663 

Was  bent,  a  dan  and  faint  ethereal  gloom 
Tempering  the  light  upon  the  chariot  beam ; 
A  Janus-visaged  shadow  did  assume 

The  guidance  of  that  wonder- winged  team  ; 
The  shapes  which  drew  it  in  thick  li.i^htnings 
Were  lost :  —  1  heard  alone  on  the  air's  soft  stream 

The  music  of  their  ever-moving  wings. 

All  the  four  faces  of  that  charioteer 

Had  their  eyes  banded  ;  little  profit  brings 

Speed  in  the  van  and  blindness  in  the  rear, 
Nor  then  avail  the  beams  that  quench  the  sun 
Or  that  with  banded  eyes  could  pierce  the  sphere 

Of  all  that  is,  has  been,  or  will  be  done  ; 
So  ill  was  the  car  guided  —  but  it  past 
With  solemn  speed  majestically  on. 

The  crowd  gave  way,  and  I  arose  aghast. 
Or  seemed  to  rise,  so  mighty  was  the  trance, 
And  saw,  like  clouds  upon  the  thunder's  blast, 

The  million  with  fierce  song  and  maniac  dance 
Raging  around  —  such  seemed  the  jubilee 
As  when,  to  meet  some  conqueror's  advance, 

Imperial  Rome  poured  forth  her  living  sea 
From  senate-house,  and  forum,  and  theatre, 
When  [  ]  upon  the  free 

Had  bound  a  yoke,  which  soon  they  stooped  to  bear. 
Nor  wanted  here  the  just  similitude 
Of  a  triumphal  pageant,  for  where'er 

The  chariot  rolled,  a  captive  multitude 

Was  driven  ;  all  those  who  had  grown  old  in  power 

Or  misery,  all  who  had  their  age  subdued 

By  action  or  by  suffering,  and  whose  hour 
Was  drained  to  its  last  sand  in  weal  or  woe, 
So  that  the  trunk  survived  both  fruit  and  flower ; 

All  those  whose  fame  or  infamy  must  grow 
Till  the  great  winter  lay  the  form  and  name 
Of  this  green  earth  with  them  for  ever  low  ; 

All  but  the  sacred  few  who  could  not  tame 

Their  spirits  to  the  conquerors  —  but  as  soon 

As  they  had  touched  the  world  with  living  flame, 

Fled  back  like  eagles  to  their  native  noon, 

Or  those  who  put  aside  the  diadem 

Of  earthly  thrones  or  gems  [  1 


664  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 

Were  there,  of  Athens  or  Jerusalem, 
Were  neither  'mid  the  mighty  captives  seen, 
Nor  'mid  the  ribald  crowd  that  followed  them, 

Nor  those  who  went  before  fierce  and  obscene. 
The  wild  dance  maddens  in  the  van,  and  those 
Who  lead  it —  fleet  as  shadows  on  the  green, 

Outspeed  the  chariot,  and  without  repose 
Mix  with  each  other  in  tempestuous  measure 
To  savage  music,  wilder  as  it  grows, 

They,  tortured  by  their  agonizing  pleasure, 
Convulsed  and  on  the  rapid  whirlwinds  spun 
Of  that  fierce  spirit,  whose  unholy  leisure 

Was  soothed  by  mischief  since  the  world  begun. 
Throw  back  their  heads  and  loose  their  streaming  hair  ; 
And  in  their  dance  round  her  who  dims  the  sun, 

Maidens  and  youths  fling  their  fv^ild  arms  in  air 
As  their  feet  twinkle  ;  they  recede,  and  now 
Bending  within  each  other's  atmosphere 

Kindle  invisibly  —  and  as  they  glow. 
Like  moths  by  light  attracted  and  repelled. 
Oft  to  their  bright  destruction  come  and  go, 

Till  like  two  clouds  into  one  vale  impelled 

That  shake  the  mountains  when  their  lightnings  mingle 

And  die  in  rain  —  the  fiery  band  Avhich  held 

Their  natures,  snaps  —  the  shock  still  may  tingle; 
One  falls  and  then  another  in  the  path 
Senseless  —  nor  is  the  desolation  single, 

Yet  ere  I  can  say  where  —  the  chariot  hath 
Past  over  them  —  nor  other  trace  I  find 
But  as  of  foam  after  the  ocean's  wrath 

Is  spent  upon  the  desert  shore  ;  behind. 
Old  men  and  women  foully  disarrayed, 
Shake  their  gray  hairs  in  the  insulting  wind, 

And  follow  in  the  dance,  with  limbs  decayed. 
Seeking  to  reach  the  light  which  leaves  them  still 
Further  behind  and  deeper  in  the  shade. 

But  not  the  less  with  impotence  of  will 

They  wheel,  though  ghastly  shadows  interpose 

Round  them  and  round  each  other,  and  fulfil 

Their  part,  and  in  the  dust  from  whence  they  rose 

Sink,  and  corruption  veils  them  as  they  lie. 

And  past  in  these  performs  what  [  ]  in  those. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE.  665 

Struck  to  the  heart  by  this  sad  pageantry, 
Half  to  myself  I  said  —  And  what  is  this  ? 
Whose  shape  is  that  within  the  car  ?     And  why — 

I  would  have  added  —  is  all  here  amiss  ?^ 

But  a  voice  answered  —  "  Life  !"  —  I  turned,  and  knew 

(O  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  such  wretchedness  !) 

That  what  I  thought  was  an  old  root  which  grew 
To  strange  distortion  out  of  the  hill-side, 
Was  indeed  one  of  those  deluded  crew, 

And  that  the  grass,  which  methought  hung  so  wide 
And  white,  was  but  his  thin  discolored  hair, 
And  that  the  holes  it  vainly  sought  to  hide, 

Were  or  had  been  eyes:  —  "If  thou  canst,  forbear 
To  join  the  dance,  which  I  had  well  forborne  !" 
Said  the  grim  Feature  of  my  thought :  "  Aware, 

"  I  will  unfold  that  which  to  this  deep  scorn 
Led  me  and  my  companions,  and  relate 
The  progress  of  the  pageant  since  the  morn 

"  If  thirst  of  knowledge  shall  not  then  abate, 

Follow  it  thou  even  to  the  night,  but  I 

Am  wearj'."     Then  like  one  who  with  the  weight 

Of  his  own  words  is  staggered,  wearily 

He  paused  ;  and,  ere  he  could  resume,  I  cried, 

"  First,  who  art  thou  ?" — "  Before  thy  memory, 

"  I  feared,  loved,  hated,  suffered,  did  and  died. 
And  if  the  spark  w^ith  which  heaven  lit  my  spirit 
Had  been  with  purer  sentiment  supplied, 

"  Corruption  w^ould  not  no-w  thus  much  inherit 
Of  what  was  once  Rousseau,  nor  this  disguise 
Stained  that  which  ought  to  have  disdained  to  wear  it ; 

"  If  I  have  been  extinguished,  yet  there  rise 

A  thousand  beacons  from  the  spark  I  bore"  — 

"  And  who  are  those  chained  to  the  car  1"  —  "The  wise, 

"  The  great,  the  unforgotten,  they  who  w^ore 
Mitres  and  helms  and  crowns,  or  wreaths  of  light. 
Signs  of  thought's  empire  over  thought  —  their  lore 

"  Taught  them  not  this  to  know  themselves;  their  might 

Could  not  repress  the  mystery  within, 

And  for  the  morn  of  truth  they  feigned,  deep  night 

"Caught  them  ere  evening."  —  "Who  is  he  with  chin 
Upon  his  breast,  and  hands  crost  on  his  chain  ?" 
"  The  child  of  a  fierce  hour ;  he  sought  to  win 


^QQ  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 

"  The  world,  and  lost  all  that  it  did  contain 
Of  greatness,  in  its  hope  destroyed  ;  and  more 
Of  fame  and  peace  than  virtue's  self  can  gain 

"  Without  the  opportunity  which  bore 

Him  on  its  eagle  pinions  to  the  peak 

From  which  a  thousand  climbers  have  before 

"  Fallen,  as  Napoleon  fell."     I  felt  my  cheek — 

Alter  to  see  the  shadow  pass  away, 

Whose  grasp  had  left  the  giant  world  so  weak, 

That  every  pigmy  kicked  it  as  it  lay  ; 

And  much  I  grieved  to  think  how  power  and  will 

In  opposition  rule  our  mortal  day, 

And  why  God  made  irreconcilable 

Good  aiid  the  means  of  good  ;  and  for  despair 

1  half  disdained  mine  eyes'  desire  to  fill 

With  the  spent  vision  of  the  times  that  vi^ere 

And  scarce  have  ceased  to  be. — "  Dost  thou  behold," 

Said  my  guide,  "  Those  spoilers  spoiled,  Voltaire, 

"  Frederick,  and  Paul,  Catherine,  and  Leopold, 
And  hoary  anarchs,  demagogues  and  sage  — 
names  which  the  world  thinks  always  old, 

"For  in  the  battle,  life  and  they  did  wage, 
She  remained  conqueror.     I  was  overcome 
By  my  own  heart  alone,  which  neither  age, 

"  Nor  tears,  nor  infamy,  nor  now  the  tomb 
Could  temper  to  its  object."  —  "  Let  them  pas.s," 
I  cried,  "  the  world  and  its  mysterious  doom 

'*  Is  not  so  much  more  glorious  than  it  was, 
That  I  desire  to  worship  those  who  drew 
New  figures  on  its  false  and  fragile  glass 

"As  the  old  faded.'!  —  "  Figures  ever  new 
Rise  on  the  bubble,  paint  them  as  you  may ; 
We  have  but  thrown,  as  those  before  us  threw, 

"  Our  shadows  on  it  as  it  past  away. 

But  mark  how  chained  to  the  triumphal  chair 

The  mighty  phantoms  of  an  elder  day ; 

"  All  that  is  mortal  of  great  Plato  there 
Expiates  the  joy  and  woe  his  master  knew^  not : 
The  star  that  ruled  his  doom  was  far  too  fair, 

"  And  life,  where  long  that  flower  of  heaven  grew  not 
Conquered  that  heart  by  love,  which  gold,  or  pain, 
Or  age,  or  sloth,  or  slavery,  could  subdue  not. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE.  667 

"  And  near  hina  walk  the  [  ]  twain, 

The  tutor  and  his  pupil,  whom  Dominion 
Followed  as  tame  as  vulture  in  a  chain. 

"  The  world  was  darkened  beneath  either  pinion 
Of  him  whom  from  the  flock  of  conquerors  * 

>  Fame  singled  out  for  her  thunder-bearing  minion ; 

"  The  other  long  outlived  both  woes  and  wars, 
Throned  in  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  still  had  kept 
The  jealous  key  of  truth's  eternal  doors, 

If  Bacon's  eagle  spirit  had  not  leapt 

Like  lightning  out  of  darkness  —  he  compelled 

The  Proteus  shape  of  Nature  as  it  slept 

"To  wake,  and  lead  him  to  the  caves  that  held 

The  treasure  of  the  secrets  of  its  reign. 

See  the  great  bards  of  elder  time,  who  quelled 

"  The  passions  which  they  sung,  as  by  their  strain 
May  well  be  known  :  their  living  melody 
Tempers  its  own  contagion  to  the  vein 

"  Of  those  who  are  infected  with  it  —  I 
Have  suffered  what  I  wrote,  or  viler  pain, 
And  so  my  words  have  seeds  of  misery  !" 


[There  is  a  cliasm  here  in  the  MS.  which  it  is  impossible  to  fill  up.  It 
appears  from  the  context,  that  other  sliapes  pass,  and  that  Kousseau 
still  stood  beside  the  dreamer,  as] 


-he  pointed  to  a  company, 


'Mid.«:t  whom  1  quickly  lecognised  the  heirs 
Of  Cai.'^ar's  crime,  from  him  to  Constantine  ; 
The  Anarch  chief!:<,  whose  force  and  murderous  snares 

Had  founded  many  a  sceptre  bearing  line, 

And  spread  the  plague  of  gold  and  blood  abroad : 

And  Gregory  and  John,  and  men  divine. 

Who  ro.se  like  shadows  between  man  and  God ; 

Till  that  eclipse,  .still  hanging  over  heaven. 

Was  worshipped  by  the  world  o'er  which  they  strode, 

For  the  true  sun  it  quenched  —  "  Their  power  was  given 
But  to  destroy,"  replied  the  leader  :  —  "I 
Am  one  of  tho.se  who  have  created,  even 

"If  it  be  but  a  world  of  agony."  — 

"  Whence  comest  thou  ?  and  whither  goest  thou  ? 

How  did  thy  course  begin  ?"  I  said,  "  and  why  ? 


668  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 

"  Mine  eyes  are  sick  of  this  perpetual  flow 

Of  people,  and  my  heart  sick  of  one  sad  thought — 

Speak !"  —  "  Whence  I  am,  I  partly  seem  to  know, 

"  And  how  and  by  what  paths  I  have  been  brought 
To  this  dread  pass,  methiuks  even  thou  mayst  guess ; 
W  hy  this  should  be  my  mind  can  compass  not ; 

"  Whither  the  conqueror  hurries  me,  still  less  ; 
But  follow  thou,  and  from  spectator  turn 
Actor  or  victim  in  this  w^retchedness, 

"  And  what  thou  wouldst  be  taught  I  then  may  learn 
From  thee.     Now  listen  :  —  In  the  April  prime, 
When  all  the  forest  tips  began  to  burn 

"  With  kindling  green,  touched  by  the  azure  clime 
Of  the  young  year's  dawn,  I  was  laid  asleep 
Under  a  mountain,  which  from  unknown  time 

"  Had  yawned  into  a  cavern,  high  and  deep  ; 

And  from  it  came  a  gentle  rivulet. 

Whose  water,  like  clear  air,  in  its  calm  sweep 

"  Bent  the  soft  grass,  and  kept  for  ever  wet 

The  stems  of  the  Bweet  flow^ers,  and  filled  the  grove 

With  sounds,  which  whoso  hears  must  needs  forget 

"  All  pleasure  and  all  pain,  all  hate  and  love. 
Which  they  had  known  before  that  hour  of  rest ; 
A  sleeping  mother  then  would  dream  not  of 

"  Her  only  child  who  died  upon  her  breast 
At  eventide  —  a  king  would  mourn  no  more 
The  crown  of  which  his  brows  were  dispossest 

"  When  the  sun  lingered  o'er  his  ocean  floor, 

To  gild  his  rival's  new  prosperity. 

Thou  wouldst  forget  thus  vainly  to  deplore 

"  Ills,  which  if  ills  can  find  no  cure  from  thee. 
The  thought  of  which  no  other  sleep  will  quell. 
Nor  other  music  blot  from  memory, 

"  So  sweet  and  deep  is  the  oblivious  spell ; 
And  whether  life  had  been  before  that  sleep 
The  heaven  which  I  imagine,  or  a  hell 

"  Like  this  harsh  world  in  which  I  wake  to  weep, 

I  know  not.     I  arose,  and  for  a  space 

The  scene  of  woods  and  waters  seemed  to  keep, 

"  Though  it  was  now  broad  day,  a  gentle  trace 
Of  light  diviner  than  the  common  sun 
Sheds  on  the  common  earth,  and  all  the  place 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE.  669 

"  Was  filled  with  magic  sounds  woven  into  one 

Oblivious  melody,  confusing  sense 

Amid  the  gliding  waves  and  shadows  dun  , 

"  And,  as  I  looked,  the  bright  omnipresence 

Of  morning  through  the  orient  cavern  flowed,      * 

And  the  sun's  image  radiantly  intense 

"  Burned  on  the  waters  of  the  well  that  glowed 
Like  gold,  and  threaded  all  the  forest's  maze 
With  winding  paths  of  emerald  fire  ;  there  stood 

"Amid  the  sun,  as  he  amid  the  blaze 

Of  his  own  glory,  on  the  vibrating 

Floor  of  the  fountain,  paved  with  flashing  rays, 

"  A  Shape  all  light,  which  with  one  hand  did  fling 
Dew  on  the  earth,  as  if  she  were  the  dawn, 
And  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 

"A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn; 
And  still  before  me  on  the  dusky  grass, 
Iris  her  many-colored  scarf  had  drawn  : 

"  In  her  right  hand  she  bore  a  crystal  glass, 
Mantling  with  bright  Nepenthe  ;  the  fierce  splendor 
Fell  from  her  as  she  moved  under  the  mass 

"  Out  of  the  deep  cavern,  with  palms  so  tender, 
Their  tread  broke  not  the  mirror  of  its  billow ; 
She  glided  along  the  river,  and  did  bend  her 

"  Head  under  the  dark  boughs,  till,  like  a  willow. 
Her  fair  hair  swept  the  bosom  of  the  stream 
That  whispered  with  delight  to  be  its  pillow. 

"  As  one  enamored  is  upborne  in  dream 

O'er  lily-paven  lakes  'mid  silver  mist, 

To  wondrous  music,  so  this  shape  might  seem 

"  Partly  to  tread  the  waves  with  feet  which  kissed 
The  dancing  foam  ;  partly  to  glide  along 
The  air  which  roughened  the  moist  amethyst, 

"  Or  the  faint  morning  beams  that  fell  among 
The  trees,  or  the  soft  shadows  of  the  trees  ; 
And  her  feet,  ever  to  the  ceaseless  song 

"Of  leaves,  and  winds,  and  waves,  and  birds,  and  bees, 
And  falling  drops  moved  to  a  measure  new. 
Yet  sweet,  as  on  the  summer  evening  breeze, 

"  Up  from  the  lake  a  shape  of  golden  dew 
Between  two  rocks,  athwart  the  rising  moon, 
Dances  i'  the  wind,  where  never  eagle  flew  ; 


670  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 

"  And  still  her  feet,  no  less  than  the  sweet  tune 

To  which  they  moved,  seemed  as  they  moved  to  blot 

The  thoughts  of  him  who  gazed  on  them ;  and  soon 

"  All  that  was,  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  not ; 
And  all  the  gazer's  mind  waa  strewn  beneath 
Her  feet  like  embers ;  and  she,  thought  by  thought, 

"  Trampled  its  sparks  into  the  dust  of  death  ; 
As  day  upon  the  threshold  of  the  east 
Treads  out  the  lamps  of  night,  until  the  breath 

•'  Of  darkness  re-illumine  even  the  least 

Of  heaven's  living  eyes —  like  day  she  came, 

Making  the  night  a  dream  ;  and  ere  she  ceased 

"  To  move,  as  one  between  desire  and  shame 
Suspended,  I  said  — '  If,  as  it  doth  seem, 
Thou  comest  from  the  realm  without  a  name, 

"  '  Into  this  valley  of  perpetual  dream. 

Show  whence  1  came,  and  where  I  am,  and  why — 

Pass  not  away  upon  the  passing  stream.' 

"  '  Arise  and  quench  thy  thirst,'  w^as  her  reply. 
And  as  a  shut  lily,  stricken  by  the  wand 
Of  dewy  morning's  vital  alchemy, 

"  I  rose  ;  and,  bending  at  her  sweet  command, 
Touched  with  faint  lips  the  cup  she  raised, 
And  suddenly  my  brain  became  as  sand, 

"  Where  the  first  wave  had  more  than  half  erased 
The  track  of  deer  on  desert  Labrador; 
While  the  wolf,  from  which  they  fled  amazed, 

"  Leaves  his  stamp  visibly  upon  the  shore, 
Until  the  second  bursts  ;  so  on  my  sight 
Burst  a  new  vision,  never  seen  before, 

"  And  the  fair  shape  waned  in  the  coming  light 
As  veil  by  veil  the  silent  splendor  drops 
From  Lucifer,  amid  the  chrysolite 

"  Of  sun-rise,  ere  it  tinge  the  mountain  tops ; 
And  as  the  presence  of  that  fairest  planet. 
Although  unseen,  is  felt  by  one  who  hopes 

"  That  his  day's  path  may  end  as  he  began  it, 
In  that  star's  smile,  whose  light  is  like  the  scent 
Of  a  jonquil  when  evening  breezes  fan  it. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE.  671 

"  Or  the  soft  note  in  which  bis  dear  lament 
The  Brescian  shepherd  breathes,  or  the  caress 
That  turned  bis  weary  slumber  to  content  ;* 

"  So  knew  I  in  that  light's  severe  excess 

The  presence  of  that  shape  which  on  the  stream 

Moved,  as  1  moved  along  the  wilderness, 

"  More  dimly  than  a  day-appearing  dream, 

The  ghost  of  a  forgotten  form  of  sleep  ; 

A  light  of  heaven,  whose  half  extinguished  beam 

"  Through  the  sick  day  in  which  we  wake  to  weep. 
Glimmers,  for  ever  sought,  for  ever  lost ; 
So  did  that  shape  its  obscure  tenor  keep 

"  Beside  my  path  as  silent  as  a  ghost ; 

But  the  new  Vision,  and  the  cold  bright  car, 

W  ith  solemn  speed  and  stunning  music,  crost 

"  The  forest,  and  as  if  some  dread  war 
Triumphantly  returning,  the  loud  million 
Fiercely  extolled  the  fortune  of  her  star. 

"  A  moving  arch  of  victory,  the  vermillion 
And  green  and  azure  plumes  of  Iris  had 
Built  high  over  her  wind-winged  pavilion, 

"  And  underneath  ethereal  glory  clad 
The  wilderness,  and  far  before  her  flew 
The  tempest  of  the  splendor,  which  forbade 

"  Shadow  to  fall  from  leaf  and  stone ;  the  crew 
Seemed  in  that  light,  like  atomies  to  dance 
Within  a  sunbeam  ;  —  some  upon  the  new 

"Embroidery  of  flowers,  that  did  enhance 
The  grassy  vesture  of  the  desert,  played, 
Forgetful  of  the  chariot's  swift  advance  ; 

"  Others  stood  gazin^^.  till  within  the  shade 
Of  the  great  mountam  its  light  left  them  dim ; 
Others  outspeeded  it ;  and  others  made 

"  Circles  around  it.  like  the  clouds  that  swim 
Round  the  high  moon  in  a  bright  sea  of  air ; 
And  more  did  follow,  with  exulting  hymn, 

"  The  chariot  and  the  captives  fettered  there  :  — 
But  all  like  bubbles  on  an  eddying  flood 
Fell  into  the  same  track  at  last,  and  were 

"Borne  onward.     I  among  the  multitude 

Was  swept  —  me,  .sweetest  flowers  delayed  not  long ; 

Me,  not  the  shadow  nor  the  solitude  ; 

Th«  favorite  song, '  Stance  di  pascolar  le  oeccorelle,'  is  a  Brescian  natiooal  air. 


672  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 

"  Me,  not  that  falling  stream's  Lethean  song ; 
Me,  not  the  phantom  of  that  early  form, 
Which  moved  upon  its  motion  —  but  among 

"  The  thickest  billows  of  that  living  storm 
I  plunged,  and  bared  my  bosom  to  the  clime 
Of  that  cold  light,  whose  airs  too  soon  deform. 

"  Before  the  chariot  had  begun  to  climb 
The  opposing  steep  of  that  mysterious  dell 
Behold  a  wonder  worthy  of  the  rhyme 

"  Of  him  who  from  the  lov^^est  depths  of  hell, 
Through  every  paradise  and  through  all  glory. 
Love  led  serene,  and  who  returned  to  tell 

"  The  words  of  hate  and  care ;  the  wondrous  story 
How  all  things  are  transfigured  except  Love ; 
Tor  deaf  as  is  a  sea  which  wrath  makes  hoary, 

"  The  world  can  hear  not  the  sweet  notes  that  move 
The  sphere  whose  light  is  melody  to  lovers — 
A  wonder  worthy  of  his  rhyme  —  the  grove 

"  Grew  dense  with  shadows  to  its  inmost  covers, 
The  earth  was  gray  with  phantoms,  and  the  air 
Was  peopled  with  dim  forms,  as  when  there  hovers 

"A  flock  of  vampire-bats  before  the  glare 
Of  the  tropic  sun,  bringing,  ere  evening, 
Strange  night  upon  some  Indian  vale  ;  thus  were 

"  Phantoms  diffused  around ;  and  some  did  fling 
Shadows  of  shadows,  yet  unlike  themselves. 
Behind  them  ;  some  like  eaglets  on  the  wing 

"  Were  lost  in  the  white  day ;  others  like  elves 
Danced  in  a  thousand  uuimagined  shapes 
Upon  the  suimy  streams  and  grassy  shelves  ; 

"  And  others  sate  chattering  like  restless  apes 

On  vulgar  hands,        *        *        * 

Some  made  a  cradle  of  the  ermined  capes 

"  Of  kingly  mantles  ;  some  across  the  tire 
Of  pontiffs  rode,  like  demons ;  others  played 
Under  the  crown  which  girt  with  empire 

"  A  baby's  or  an  idiot's  brow,  and  made 

Their  nests  in  it.     The  old  anatomies 

Sate  hatching  their  bare  brood  under  the  shade 

"  Of  demon-wings,  and  laughed  from  their  dead  eyes 

To  reassume  the  delegated  power. 

Arrayed  in  which  those  worms  did  monarchise. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE.  673 

"  Who  made  this  earth  their  charnel.     Others  more 

Humble,  like  falcons,  sat  upon  the  fist 

Of  common  men,  and  round  their  heads  did  soar  ; 

"Or  like  small  gnats  and  flies,  as  thick  as  mist 
On  evening  marshes,  thronged  about  the  brow 
Of  lawyers,  statesmen,  priest,  and  theorist ; 

"  And  others,  like  discolored  flakes  of  snow 
On  fairest  bosoms  and  the  sunniest  hair, 
Fell,  and  were  melted  by  the  youthful  glow 

"  Which  they  extinguished ;  and,  like  tears,  they  were 
A  veil  to  those  from  whose  faint  lids  they  rained 
In  drops  of  sorrow.     I  became  aware 

"Of  whence  those  forms  proceeded  which  thus  stained 
The  track  in  which  we  moved.     After  brief  space, 
From  every  form  the  beauty  slowly  waned ; 

"  From  every  firmest  limb  and  fairest  face 

The  strength  and  freshness  fell  like  dust,  and  left 

The  action  and  the  shape  without  the  grace 

"  Of  life.     The  marble  brow  of  youth  was  cleft 
With  care  ;  and  in  those  eyes  where  once  hope  shone, 
Desire,  like  a  lioness  bereft 

"  Of  her  last  cub,  glared  ere  it  died  ;  each  one 

Of  that  great  crowd  sent  forth  incessantly 

These  shadows,  numerous  as  the  dead  leaves  blown 

"  In  autumn  evening  from  a  poplar  tree 
Each  like  himself  and  like  each  other  were 
At  first ;  but  some  distorted  seemed  to  be 

"  Obscure  clouds,  moulded  by  the  casual  air; 
And  of  this  stuff  the  car's  creative  ray 
Wrapt  all  the  busy  phantoms  that  were  there, 

"  As  the  sun  shapes  the  clouds  ;  thus  on  the  way 
Mask  after  ma.sk  fell  from  the  countenance 
And  form  of  all ;  and  long  before  the  day 

"Was  old,  the  joy  which  waked  like  heaven's  glance 
The  sWpers  in  the  oblivious  valley,  died  ; 
And  some  grew  weary  of  the  ghastly  dance, 

"  And  fell,  as  I  have  fallen,  by  the  way-side  ;  — 
Those  soonest  from  whose  forms  most  shadows  past, 
And  least  of  strength  and  beauty  did  abide. 

"  Then,  what  is  life  ?  I  cried." — 
43 


674  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 

HYMN  TO  MERCURY. 

TRASLATED  FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  HOMER. 
I. 

Sing,  Muse,  the  son  of  Maia  and  of  Jove, 

The  herald-child,  king  of  Arcadia 
And  all  its  pastoral  bills,  whora  in  sweet  love 

Having  been  interwoven,  modest  May- 
Bore  heaven's  dread  Supreme  —  an  antique  grove 

Shadowed  the  cavern  where  the  lovers  lay 
In  the  deep  night,  unseen  by  gods  or  men. 
And  white-armed  Juno  slumbered  sweetly  then. 


Now,  when  tlie  joy  of  Jove  had  its  fulfilling, 
And  heaven's  tenth  moon  chronicled  her  relief. 

She  gave  to  light  a  babe  ail  babes  excelling, 
A  schemer  subtle  beyond  all  belief; 

A  shepherd  of  thin  dreams,  a  cow-stealing, 
A  night-watching  and  door-waylaying  thief. 

Who  'mong  the  gods  was  soon  about  to  thieve. 

And  other  glorious  actions  to  achieve. 


The  babe  was  born  at  the  first  peep  of  day ; 

He  began  playing  on  the  lyre  at  noon, 
And  the  same  evening  did  he  steal  away 

Apollo's  herds :  the  fourth  day  of  the  moon 
On  which  him  bore  tlie  venerable  May, 

From  her  immortal  limbs  he  leaped  full  soon. 
Nor  long  could  in  the  sacred  cradle  keep. 
But  out  to  seek  Apollo's  herds  would  creep. 


Out  of  the  k)fty  cavern  wandering 

He  found  a  tortoise,  and  cried  out,  "  A  treasure  !" 
(For  Mercury  first  made  the  tortoise  sing) 

The  beast  before  the  portal  at  his  leisure 
The  flowery  herbage  was  depasturing, 

Moving  his  feet  in  a  deliberate  measure 
Over  the  turf     Jove's  profitable  son 
Eying  him  laughed,  and  laughing  thus  begun : 


"  A  useful  god-send  are  you  to  me  now, 
King  of  the  dance,  companion  of  the  feast. 

Lovely  in  all  your  nature  !     Welcome,  you 

Excellent  plaything  !     Where,  sv.'eet  mountain-beast. 

Got  you  that  speckled  shell  ?     Thus  much  I  know, 
You  must  come  home  with  me  and  be  my  gnest ; 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  675 


You  will  give  joy  to  me,  and  I  will  do 
All  that  is  in  my  power  to  honor  you. 


"  Better  to  he  at  home  than  out  of  door  ; 

So  come  with  me,  and  though  it  has  heen  said 
That  you  alive  defend  from  magic  power, 

I  know  you  will  sing  sweetly  when  you're  dead. 
Thus  having  spoken,  the  quaint  infant  bore, 

Lifting  it  from  the  grass  on  which  it  fed, 
And  grasping  it  in  his  delighted  hold. 
His  treasured  prize  into  the  cavern  old. 


Then  scooping  with  a  chisel  of  gray  steel, 
He  bored  the  life  and  soul  out  of  the  beast  — 

Not  swifter  a  swift  thought  of  woe  or  weal 
Darts  through  the  tumult  of  a  human  breast 

Which  thronging  cares  annoy  —  not  swifter  wheel 
The  flashes  of  its  torture  and  unrest 

Out  of  the  dizzy  eyes  —  than  Maia's  son 

All  that  he  did  devise  hath  featly  done. 


And  through  the  tortoise's  hard  strong  skin 

At  proper  distances  small  holes  he  made, 

And  fastened  the  cut  stems  of  reeds  within, 

And  with  a  piece  of  leather  overlaid 
The  open  space  and  fixed  the  cubits  in, 
Fitting  the  bridge  to  both,  and  stretched  o'er  all 
Symphonious  cords  of  sheep-gut  rhythmical. 


When  he  had  wrought  the  lovely  instrument, 
He  tried  the  chords,  and  made  division  meet 

Preluding  with  the  plectrum,  and  there  went 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  a  tumult  sweet 

Of  mighty  sounds,  and  from  his  lips  he  sent 
A  strain  of  unpremeditated  wit 

Joyous  and  wild  and  wanton  —  such  you  may 

Hear  among  revelers  on  a  holy  day. 


He  sung  how  Jove  and  May  of  the  bright  sandal 

Dallied  in  love  not  quite  legitimate  ; 
And  his  own  birth,  still  scoffing  at  the  scandal, 

And  naming  his  own  name,  did  celebrate  ; 
His  mother's  cave  and  servant-maids  he  planned  all 

In  plastic  verse,  her  household  stuff"  and  state, 
Perennial  pot.  trippet.  and  brazen  pan  — 
But  singing  he  conceived  another  plan  : 


676  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


X  I. 

Seized  with  a  sudden  fancy  for  fresh  meat, 

He  in  his  sacred  crib  deposited 
The  hollow  lyre,  and  from  the  cavern  sweet 

Rushed  with  great  leaps  up  to  the  mountain's  head. 
Revolving  in  his  mind  some  subtle  feat 
Of  thievish  craft,  such  as  a  swindler  might 
Devise  in  the  lone  season  of  dun  night. 


Lo  !  the  great  Sun  under  the  ocean's  bed  has 

Driven  steeds  and  chariot — the  child  meanwhile  strode 

O'er  the  Pierian  mountains  clothed  in  shadows, 
Where  the  immortal  oxen  of  the  god 

Are  pastured  in  the  flowering  unmown  meadows, 
And  safely  stalled  in  a  remote  abode  — 

The  archer  Argicide,  elate  and  proud, 

Drove  fifty  from  the  herd,  lowing  aloud. 


He  drove  them  wandering  o'er  the  sandy  way, 

But,  being  ever  mindful  of  his  craft. 
Backward  and  forward  drove  he  them  astray, 

So  that  the  tracks,  which  seemed  before,  were  aft ; 
His  sandals  then  he  threw  to  the  ocean-spray, 

And  for  each  foot  he  wrought  a  kind  of  raft 
Of  tamarisk  and  tamarisk-like  sprigs. 
And  bound  them  in  a  lump  with  withy  twigs. 


And  on  his  feet  he  tied  these  sandals  light, 

The  trail  of  whose  wide  leaves  might  not  betray 

His  track  ;  and  then,  a  self-sufficing  wight. 
Like  a  man  hastening  on  some  distant  way. 

He  from  Pieria's  mountain  bent  liis  flight ; 

But  an  old  man  perceived  the  infant  pass 

Down  green  Onchestus,  heaped  like  beds  with  grass. 


The  old  man  stood  dressing  his  sunny  vine  : 

"  Halloo  !  old  fellow  with  the  crooked  shoulder ! 

You  grub  those  stumps  ?     Before  they  will  bear  wine 
Methinks  even  you  must  grow  a  little  older : 

Attend,  I  pray,  to  this  advice  of  mine, 

As  you  would  'scape  what  might  appall  a  bolder  — 

Seeing,  see  not —  and  hearing,  hear  not  —  and  — 

If  you  have  understanding  —  understand." 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  677 


So  saying,  Hermes  roused  the  oxen  vast ; 

O'er  shadowy  mountain  and  resounding  dell, 
And  flower-paven  plains,  great  Hermes  past ; 

Till  the  black  night  divine,  which  favoring  fell 
Around  his  steps,  grew  gray,  and  morning  fast 

Wakened  the  world  to  work,  and  from  her  cell, 
Sea-strewn,  the  Pallantean  Moon  sublime 
Into  her  watchtower  just  began  to  climb. 


Now  to  Alpheus  he  had  driven  all 

The  broad-foreheaded  oxen  of  the  sun  ; 
They  came  unwearied  to  the  lofty  stall 

And  to  the  water-troughs  which  ever  run 
Through  the  fresh  fields  —  and  when  with  rushgrass  tall 

Lotus  and  all  sweet  herbage,  every  one 
Had  pa.stured  been,  the  great  god  made  them  move 
Toward  the  stall  in  a  collected  drove. 


A  mighty  pile  of  wood  the  god  then  heaped. 
And  having  soon  conceived  the  mystery 

Of  fire,  from  two  smooth  laurel-branches  stripped 
The  bark,  and  rubbed  them  in  his  palms  —  on  high 

Suddenly  forth  the  burning  vapor  leaped, 
And  the  divine  child  saw  delightedly  — 

Mercury  first  found  out  for  human  weal 

Tinder-box.  matches,  fire-irons,  flint  and  steel. 


And  fine  dry  logs  and  roots  innumerous 
He  gathered  in  a  delve  upon  the  ground  — 

And  kindled  them  —  and  instantaneous 

The  strength  of  the  fierce  flame  was  breathed  around  : 

And  while  the  might  of  glorious  Vulcan  thus 

"Wrapped  the  great  pile  with  glare  and  roaring  sound, 

Hermes  dragged  forth  two  heifers,  lowing  loud, ' 

Close  to  the  fire  —  such  might  was  in  the  god. 


And  on  the  earth  upon  their  backs  he  threw 

The  panting  beasts,  and  rolled  them  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  bored  their  lives  out.     Without  more  ado 
He  cut  up  fat  and  flesh,  and  down  before 

The  fire  on  spits  of  wood  he  placed  the  two, 
Toasting  their  flesh  and  ribs,  and  all  the  gore 

Pursed  in  the  bowels  ;  and  while  this  was  done, 

He  stretched  their  hides  over  a  craggy  stone. 


678  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


We  mortals  let  an  ox  grow  old,  and  then 

Cut  it  up  after  long  consideration  — 
But  joyous-minded  Hermes  from  the  glen 

Drew  the  fat  spoils  to  the  more  open  station 
Of  a  flat  smooth  space,  and  portioned  them ;  and  when 

He  had  by  lot  assigned  to  each  a  ration 
Of  the  twelve  gods,  his  mind  became  aware 
Of  all  the  joys  which  in  religion  are. 

XX  I  1. 

For  the  sweet  savor  of  the  roasted  meat 
Tempted  him  though  immortal.     Nathless 

He  checked  his  haughty  will  and  did  not  eat, 

Though  what  it  cost  him  words  can  scarce  express, 

And  every  wish  to  put  such  morsels  sweet 
Down  his  most  sacred  throat,  he  did  repress ; 

But  soon  within  the  lofty  portaled  stall 

He  placed  the  fat  and  flesh  and  bones  and  all. 


And  every  trace  of  the  fresh  butchery 

And  cooking  the  god  soon  made  disappear, 

As  if  it  all  had  vanished  through  the  sky ; 

He  burnt  the  hoofs  and  horns  and  head  and  hair  — 

The  insatiate  fire  devoured  them  hungryly  ; 
And  when  he  saw  that  everything  was  clear, 

He  quenched  the  coals  and  trampled  the  black  dust, 

And  in  the  stream  his  bloody  sandals  tossed. 


All  night  he  worked  in  the  serene  moonshine  — 
But  when  the  light  of  day  was  spread  abroad 

He  sought  his  natal  mountain-peaks  divine. 
On  his  long  wandering,  neither  man  nor  god 

Had  met  him,  since  he  killed  Apollo's  kine. 
Nor  house-dog  had  barked  at  him  on  his  road  ; 

Now  he  obliquely  through  the  keyhole  passed. 

Like  a  thin  mist  or  an  autumnal  blast. 


Right  through  the  temple  of  the  spacious  cave 
He  went  with  soft  light  feet  —  as  if  his  tread 

Fell  not  on  earth  :  no  sound  their  falling  gave  ; 
Then  to  his  cradle  he  crept  quick,  and  spread 

The  swaddling-clothes  about  him  ;  and  the  knave 
Lay  playing  with  the  covering  of  the  bed 

With  his  left  hand  about  his  knees  —  the  right 

Held  his  beloved  tortoise-lyre  tight. 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  679 


There  be  lay  innocent  as  a  newborn  cbild, 
As  gossips  say  ;  but,  though  he  was  a  god, 

The  goddess,  his  fair  mother,  unbeguiled 
Knew  all  that  he  had  done,  being  abroad  : 

"  Whence  come  you,  and  from  what  adventure  wild, 
You  cuiming  rogue,  and  where  have  you  abode 

All  the  long  night,  clothed  in  your  impudence  ? 

What  have  you  done  since  you  departed  hence  1 


"  Apollo  soon  will  pass  within  this  gate, 

And  bind  your  tender  body  in  a  chain 
Inextricably  tight,  and  fast  as  fate, 

Unless  you  can  delude  the  god  again, 
Even  when  within  his  arms  —  ah,  runagate! 

A  pretty  torment  both  for  gods  and  men 
Your  father  made  when  he  made  you  !"  —  •'  Dear  mother,' 
Replied  sly  Hermes,  '•  wherefore  scold  and  bother  ? 


"  As  if  I  were  like  other  babes  as  old, 

And  understood  nothing  of  what  is  what; 

And  cared  at  all  to  hear  my  mother  scold. 
I  in  my  subtle  brain  a  scheme  have  got 

Which,  while  the  sacred  stars  round  lieaven  are  rolled. 
Will  profit  you  and  me  —  nor  shall  our  lot 

Be  as  you  counsel,  without  gifts  or  food, 

To  spend  our  Uvea  in  this  obscure  abode. 


"But  we  will  leave  this  shadow-peopled  cave, 
And  live  among  the  gods,  and  pass  each  day 

In  high  communion,  sharing  what  they  have 
Of  profuse  wealth  and  unexhausted  prey : 

And,  from  the  portion  which  my  father  gave 
To  Phoebus,  I  will  snatch  my  share  away. 

Which  if  my  father  will  not  —  nathless  I, 

Who  am  the  king  of  robbers,  can  but  try. 


"  And  if  Latona's  son  should  find  me  out, 
I'll  countermine  him  by  a  deeper  plan  ; 

I'll  pierce  the  Pythian  temple-walls,  though  stout, 
And  sack  the  fane  of  everything  I  can  — 

Caldrons  and  tripods  of  great  worth  no  doubt, 
Each  golden  cup  and  polished  brazen  pan. 

All  the  wrought  tapestries  and  garments  gay." 

So  they  togetlier  talked :  meanwhile  the  Day 


680  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


Ethereal-born  arose  out  of  the  flood 

Of  flowing  Ocean,  bearing  light  to  men. 

Apollo  passed  toward  the  sacred  wood, 

Which  from  the  inmost  depths  of  its  green  glen 

Echoes  the  voice  of  Neptune  —  and  there  stood 
On  the  same  spot  in  green  Onchestus  then 

That  same  old  animal,  the  vine-dresser. 

Who  was  employed  hedging  his  vineyard  there. 


Latona's  glorious  son  began  :  "  I  pray 
Tell,  ancient  hedger  of  Onchestus  green. 

Whether  a  drove  of  kine  has  passed  this  way, 

All  heifers  with  crooked  horns  ?  for  they  have  been 

Stolen  from  the  herd  in  high  Pieria, 

Where  a  black  bull  was  fed  apart,  between 

Two  woody  mountains  in  a  neighboring  glen. 

And  four  fierce  dogs  watched  there,  unanimous  as  men. 


"  And,  what  is  strange,  the  author  of  this  theft 
Has  stolen  the  fatted  heifers  every  one. 

But  the  four  dogs  and  the  black  bull  are  left : 
Stolen  they  were  last  night  at  set  of  sun. 

Of  their  soft  beds  and  their  sweet  food  bereft  — 
Now  tell  me,  man  born  ere  the  world  begun, 

Have  you  seen  any  one  pass  with  the  cows  ?" 

To  whom  the  man  of  overhanging  brows  — 


"  My  friend,  it  would  require  no  common  skill 

Justly  to  speak  of  everything  I  see ; 
On  various  purposes  of  good  or  ill 

Many  pass  by  my  vineyard  —  and  to  me 
'Tis  difficult  to  know  the  invisible 

Thoughts  which  in  all  those  many  minds  may  be ; 
Thus  much  alone  I  certainly  can  say, 
I  tilled  these  vines  till  the  decline  of  day, 


"  And  then  I  thought  I  saw,  but  dare  not  speak 
With  certainty  of  such  a  wondrous  thing, 

A  child,  who  could  not  have  been  born  a  week, 
Those  fair-horned  cattle  closely  following, 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  polished  stick  ; 
And,  as  on  purpose,  he  walked  wavering 

From  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  road. 

And  with  his  face  opposed  the  steps  he  trod," 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  681 


Apollo,  hearing  this,  passed  quickly  on  : 

No  winged  omen  could  have  shown  more  clear 

That  the  deceiver  was  his  father's  sou. 
So  the  god  wraps  a  purple  atmosphere 

Around  his  shoulders,  and  like  lire  is  gone 
To  famous  Pylos,  seeking  his  kine  there, 

And  found  their  track  and  his,  yet  hardly  cold, 

And  cried,  "  What  wonder  do  mine  eyes  behold  ! 

XXXVII. 

"  Here  are  the  footsteps  of  the  horned  herd 
Turned  back  toward  their  fields  of  asphodel ; 

But  these  are  not  the  tracks  of  beast  or  bird, 
Gray  wolf  or  bear  or  lion  of  the  dell, 

Or  maned  centaur :  sand  was  never  stirred 
By  man  or  woman  thus  !     Inexplicable  ! 

Who  with  unwearied  feet  could  e'er  impress 

The  sand  with  such  enormous  vestiges  ? 


"  That  was  most  strange,  but  this  is  stranger  still !" 
Thus  having  said,  Phoebus  impetuously 

Sought  higli  Cyllene's  forest-cinctured  hill, 
And  the  deep  cavern  where  dark  shadows  lie, 

And  where  the  ambrosial  nymph  with  happy  will 
Bore  the  Saturuian's  love  child,  Mercury  — 

And  a  delightful  odor  from  the  dew 

Of  the  hill-pastures,  at  his  coming,  flew. 


And  PhoDbus  stooped  under  the  craggy  roof 
Arched  over  the  dark  cavern  :  Maia's  child 

Perceived  that  he  came  angry,  far  aloof. 

About  the  cows  of  which  he  had  been  beguiled. 

And  over  him  tlie  fine  and  fragrant  woof 

Of  his  ambrosial  swaddling-clothes  he  piled  — 

As  among  firebrands  lies  a  burning  spark 

Covered,  beneath  the  ashes  cold  and  dark. 


There,  like  an  infant  who  had  sucked  his  fill. 
And  now  was  newly  washed  and  put  to  bed, 

Awake,  but  courting  sleep  with  weary  will 
And  gathered  in  a  lump,  hands,  feet  and  head, 

He  lay,  and  his  beloved  tortoise  still 

He  grasped  and  held  under  his  shoulder-blade  ; 

Phoibus,  the  lovely  mountain-goddess,  knew, 

Mot  less  her  subtle,  swindling  baby,  who 


682  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


Lay  swathed  in  his  sly  wiles.     Round  every  crook 
Of  the  ample  cavern,  for  his  kine  Apollo 

Looked  sharp ;  and  when  he  saw  them  not,  he  took 
The  glittering  key,  and  opened  three  great  hollow 

Recesses  in  the  rock  —  where  many  a  nook 

Was  filled  with  the  sweet  food  immortals  swallow. 

And  mighty  heaps  of  silver  and  of  gold 

Were  piled  within  —  a  wonder  to  behold  ! 


And  white  and  silver  robes,  all  overwrought 
With  cunning  workmanship  of  tracerj'  sweet  ■ 

Except  among  the  gods  there  can  be  naught 
In  the  wide  world  to  be  compared  with  it. 

Latona's  offspring,  after  having  sought 
His  herds  in  every  corner,  thus  did  greet 

Great  Hermes :  "  Little  cradled  rogue,  declare, 

Of  my  illustrious  heifers,  where  they  are  ! 


"  Speak  quickly  !  or  a  quarrel  between  ua 
Must  rise,  and  the  event  will  be,  that  I 

Shall  haul  you  into  dismal  Tartarus, 
In  fiery  gloom  to  dwell  eternally  ! 

Nor  shall  your  father  nor  your  mother  loose 
The  bars  of  that  black  dungeon  —  utterly 

You  shall  be  cast  out  from  the  light  of  day, 

To  rule  the  ghosts  of  men,  unblest  as  they  !' 


To  whom  thus  Hermes  slyly  answered  :  "  Son 
Of  great  Latona,  what  a  speech  is  this  ! 

Why  come  you  here  to  ask  me  what  is  done 
With  the  wild  oxen  which  it  seems  you  miss? 

I  have  not  seen  them,  nor  from  any  one 
Have  heard  a  word  of  the  whole  business : 

If  you  should  promise  an  immense  reward, 

I  could  not  tell  more  than  you  now  have  heard. 


"  An  ox-stealer  should  be  both  tall  and  strong. 
And  I  am  but  a  little  newborn  thing, 

Who,  yet  at  least,  can  think  of  nothing  wrong: 
My  business  is  to  suck  and  sleep  and  fling 

The  cradle-clothes  about  me  all  day  long  — 
Or,  half  asleep,  hear  my  sweet  mother  sing. 

And  to  be  washed  in  water  clean  and  warm, 

And  hushed  and  kissed  and  kept  secure  from  harm. 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  683 


"  Oh,  let  not  e'er  this  quarrel  be  averred  ! 

The  astounded  gods  would  laugh  at  you.  if  e'er 
You  should  alledg-e  a  story  so  absurd, 

As  that  a  newborn  infant  forth  could  fare 
Out  of  his  home  after  a  savage  herd. 

I  was  born  yesterday  :  my  small  feet  are 
Too  tender  for  the  roads  so  hard  and  rough : 
And  if  you  think  that  this  is  not  enough, 


"  I  swear  a  great  oath,  by  my  father's  head, 
That  I  stole  not  your  cows,  and  that  I  know 

Of  no  one  else  who  might  or  could  or  did. 
Whatever  things  cows  are  I  do  not  know. 

For  1  have  only  heard  the  name."     This  said, 
He  winked  as  fast  as  could  be,  and  his  brow 

Was  wrinkled,  and  a  whistle  loud  gave  he. 

Like  one  who  hears  some  strange  absurdity. 


Apollo  gently  smiled  and  said,  "  Ay,  ay  — 
You  cunning  little  rascal,  you  will  bore 

Many  a  rich  man's  house,  and  your  array 

Of  thieves  will  lay  their  siege  befor    his  door, 

Silent  as  night,  in  night ;  and  many  a  day 

In  the  wild  glens  rough  shepherds  will  deplore 

That  you  or  yours,  having  an  appetite, 

Met  with  their  cattle  comrade  of  the  night ! 


•'  And  this  among  the  gods  shall  be  your  gift, 

To  be  considered  as  the  lord  of  those 
W^ho  swindle,  house  break,  sheep-steal,  and  shop-lift  ; 

But  now  if  you  would  not  your  last  sleep  dose, 
Crawl  out !"     Thus  saying,  Phoebus  did  uplift 

The  subtle  infant  in  his  swaddling-clothes, 
And  in  his  arms,  according  to  his  wont, 
A  scheme  devised  the  illustrious  Argiphont. 


And  sneezed  and  shuddered  —  Phoebus  on  the  grass 
Him  threw,  and  while  all  that  he  had  designed 

He  did  pei-lbrm  —  eager  although  to  pass, 
Apollo  darted  from  his  mighty  mind 

Toward  the  subtle  babe  li;e  following  scoff: 

"  Do  not  imagine  this  wiii  get  you  off. 


684  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


"  You  little  swaddled  child  of  Jove  and  May  !" 
And  seized  him  :  "  By  this  omen  I  shall  trace 

My  noble  herds,  and  you  shall  lead  the  way." 
Cyllenian  Hermes  from  the  grassy  place, 

Like  one  in  earnest  haste  to  get  away, 

Rose,  and  with  hands  lifted  toward  his  face, 

Round  both  his  ears  up  from  his  shoulders  drew 

His  swaddling-clothes,  and  —  "  What  mean  you  to  do 


"  With  me,  you  unkind  god  1"  said  Mercury  ? 

"  Is  it  about  these  cows  you  teaze  me  so  ? 
1  wish  the  race  of  cows  were  perished  !  —  I 

Stole  not  your  cows  :  I  do  not  even  know 
What  things  cows  are.     Alas  !  I  well  may  sigh, 

That,  since  I  came  into  this  world  of  woe, 
I  should  have  ever  heard  the  name  of  one  : 
But  I  appeal  to  the  Saturnian's  throne." 


Thus  Phoebus  and  the  vagrant  Mercury 
Talked  without  coming  to  an  explanation. 

With  adverse  purpose.     As  for  Phoebus,  he 
Sought  not  revenge,  but  only  information, 

And  Hermes  tried  with  Jies  and  roguery 
To  cheat  Apollo.     But  when  no  evasion 

Served  —  for  the  cunning  one  his  match  had  found- 

He  paced  on  first  over  the  sandy  ground. 


He  of  the  silver  bow,  the  child  of  Jove, 

Followed  behind,  till  to  their  heavenly  sire 
Came  both  his  children,  beautiful  as  Love, 
And  from  his  equal  balance  did  require 
A  judgement  in  the  cause  wherein  they  strove. 
O'er  odorous  Olympus  and  its  snows 
A  murmuring  tumult  as  they  came  arose  : 


And  from  the  folded  depths  of  the  great  hill, 
While  Hermes  and  Apollo  reverent  stood 

Before  Jove's  throne,  the  indestructible 
Immortals  rushed  in  mighty  multitude  ; 

And,  while  their  seats  in  order  due  they  fill, 
The  lofty  Thunderer  in  a  careless  mood 

To  Phoebus  said,  "  Whence  drive  you  this  sweet  prey, 

This  herald-baby,  born  but  yesterday  ?  — 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  685 


'*  A  mo8t  important  subject,  trifler,  this 

To  lay  before  the  gods  !"  —  "  Nay,  father,  nay, 

When  you  have  understood  the  business, 
Say  not  that  I  alone  am  fond  of  prey. 

I  found  this  little  boy  in  a  recess 

Under  Cyllene's  mountains  far  away  — 

A  manifest  and  most  apparent  thief, 

A  scandal-monger  beyond  all  belief. 


"  I  never  saw  his  like  either  in  heaven 

Or  upon  earth  for  knavery  or  craft : 
Out  of  the  field  my  cattle  y ester-even. 

By  the  low  shore  on  which  the  loud  sea  laughed, 
He  right  down  to  the  river-ford  had  driven  ; 

And  mere  astonishment  would  make  you  daft 
To  see  the  double  kind  of  footsteps  strange 
He  has  impressed  wherever  he  did  range. 


"  The  cattle's  track  on  the  black  dust  full  well 

Is  evident,  as  if  they  went  towards 
The  place  from  which  they  came  —  that  asphodel 

Meado"w,  in  which  I  feed  my  many  herds  ; 
His  steps  were  most  incomprehensible  — 

I  know  not  how  I  can  describe  in  words 
Those  tracks  ;  he  could  have  gone  along  the  sands 
Neither  upon  his  feet  nor  on  his  hands  ; 


"  He  must  have  had  some  other  stranger  mode 
Of  moving  on  :  those  vestiges  immense, 

Far  as  I  traced  them  on  the  sandy  road, 

Seemed  like  the  trail  of  oak-toppings  :  but  thence 

No  mark  nor  track  denoting  where  they  trod 

The  hard  ground  gave  :  but,  working  at  his  fence, 

A  mortal  hedger  saw  him  as  he  past 

To  Pylos,  with  the  cows,  in  fiery  haste. 


"  I  found  that  in  the  dark  he  quietly 

Had  sacrificed  some  cows,  and  before  light 

Had  thrown  the  ashes  all  dispersedly 

About  the  road  ;  then,  still  as  gloomy  night, 

Had  crept  into  his  cradle,  either  eye 

Rubbing,  and  cogitating  some  now  sleight. 

No  eagle  could  have  seen  him  as  he  lay 

Hid  in  his  cavern  from  the  peering  day. 


686  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


"  I  taxed  him  with  the  fact,  when  he  averred 
Most  solemnly  that  he  did  neither  see 

Nor  even  had  in  any  manner  heard 

Of  my  lost  cows,  whatever  things  cows  be  : 

Nor  could  he  tell,  though  offered  a  reward, 
Not  even  who  could  tell  of  them  to  me." 

So  speaking,  Phoebus  sate  ;  and  Hermes  then 

Addressed  the  supreme  Lord  of  gods  and  men  : 


"  Great  father,  you  know  clearly  beforehand 
That  all  which  I  shall  say  to  you  is  sooth  ; 

I  am  a  most  veracious  person,  and 
Totally  unacquainted  with  untruth. 

At  sunrise  Phoebus  came,  but  with  no  band 
Of  gods  to  bear  him  witness,  in  great  wrath 

To  my  abode,  seeking  his  heifers  there, 

And  saying  tliat  I  must  show  him  where  they  are, 


"  Or  he  would  hurl  me  down  the  dark  abyss. 

I  know  that  every  Apollonian  limb 
Is  clothed  with  speed  and  might  and  manliness, 

As  a  green  bank  with  flowers  —  but  unlike  him 
I  was  born  yesterday,  and  you  may  guess 

He  well  knew  this  when  he  indulged  the  whim 
Of  bullying  a  poor  little  newborn  thing 
That  slept,  and  never  thought  of  cow-driving. 


"  Am  I  like  a  strong  fellow  who  steals  kine  ? 

Believe  me,  dearest  father,  such  you  are, 
This  driving  of  the  herds  is  none  of  mine  ; 

Across  my  threshold  did  I  wander  ne'er, 
So  may  I  thrive  !     I  reverence  the  divine 

Sun  and  the  gods,  and  I  love  you,  and  care 
Even  for  this  hard  accuser  —  who  must  know 
I  am  as  innocent  as  they  or  you. 


"  I  swear  by  these  most  gloriously -wrought  portals- 
(It  is,  you  will  allow,  an  oath  of  might) 

Through  which  the  multitude  of  the  immortals 
Pass  and  repass  for  ever,  day  and  night, 

Devising  schemes  for  the  affairs  of  mortals  — 
That  I  am  guiltless ;  and  I  will  requite, 

Although  mine  enemy  be  great  and  strong, 

His  cruel  threat :  do  thou  defend  the  young  !"' 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  687 


So  speaking,  the  Cyllenian  Argiphont 

Winked,  as  if  now  his  adversary  was  fitted : 

And  Jupiter,  according  to  his  wont, 

Laughed  heartily  to  hear  the  subtle-witted 

Infant  give  such  a  plausible  account, 

And  every  word  a  lie.     But  he  remitted 

Judgement  at  present,  and  his  exhortation 

Was,  to  compose  the  affair  by  arbitration. 


And  they  by  mighty  Jupiter  were  bidden 
To  go  forth  with  a  single  purpose  both. 

Neither  the  other  chiding  nor  yet  chidden  : 
And  Mercury  with  innocence  and  truth 

To  lead  the  waj^  and  show  where  he  had  hidden 
The  mighty  heifers.     Hermes,  nothing  loth, 

Obeyed  the  ^gis-bearer's  will ;  for  he 

Is  able  to  persuade  all  easily. 


These  lovely  children  of  heaven's  highest  Lord 
Hastened  to  Pylos  and  the  pastures  wide 

And  lofty  stalls  by  the  Alphean  ford. 

Where  wealth  in  the  mute  night  is  multiplied 

With  silent  growth.     While  Hermes  drove  the  herd 
Out  of  the  stony  cavern,  Phoibus  spied 

The  hides  of  those  the  little  babe  had  slain, 

Stretched  on  the  precipice  above  the  plain. 


"  How  was  it  possible,"  then  Phoebus  said, 
"  That  you,  a  little  child,  born  yesterday, 

A  thing  on  mother's  milk  and  ki-sses  fed. 
Could  two  prodigious  heifers  ever  flay  ? 

E'en  I  myself  may  well  hereafter  dread 
Your  prowess,  offspring  of  Cyllenian  May, 

Wnen  you  grow  strong:  and  tall.'     He  spoke,  and  bound 

Stiff  withy  bands  the  infant's  wrists  around. 


He  might  as  well  have  bound  the  oxen  wild  ; 

The  withy  bands,  though  starkly  interknit, 
Fell  at  the  feet  of  the  immortal  child, 

Loosened  by  some  device  of  his  quick  wit. 
Phoebus  perceived  him.self  again  beguiled, 

And  stared  :  while  Hermes  ssought  some  hole  or  pit, 
Looking  askance  and  winking  fast  as  thought, 
Where  he  might  hide  himself,  and  not  be  caught 


688  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


Sudden  he  changed  his  plan,  and  with  strange  skill 
Subdued  the  strong  Latonian,  by  the  might 

Of  winning  music,  to  his  mightier  will ; 
His  left  hand  held  the  lyre"  and  in  his  right 

The  plectrum  struck  the  chords  —  unconquerable 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  in  circling  flight 

The  gathering  music  rose  —  and  sweet  as  love, 

The  penetrating  notes  did  live  and  move 


"Within  the  heart  of  great  Apollo  —  he 

Listened  with  all  his  soul,  and  langhed  for  pleasure. 
Close  to  his  side  stood  harping  fearlessly 

The  unabashed  boy  ;  and  to  the  measure 
Of  the  sweet  lyre,  there  followed  loud  and  free 

His  joyous  voice  ;  for  he  unlocked  the  treasure 
Of  his  deep  song,  illustrating  the  birth 
Of  the  bright  gods  and  the  dark  desert  earth  ; 


And  how  to  the  immortals  every  one 
A  portion  was  assigned  of  all  that  is; 

But  chief  Mnemosyne  did  Maia's  son 
Clothe  in  the  light  of  his  loud  melodies ; 

And,  as  each  god  was  born,  or  had  begun, 
He  in  their  order  due  and  fit  degrees 

Sung  of  his  birth  and  being  —  and  did  move 

Apollo  to  unutterable  love. 


These  words  were  winged  with  his  swift  delight : 
"  You  heifer-stealing  schemer,  well  do  you 

Deserve  that  fifty  oxen  should  requite 

Such  minstrelsies  as  I  have  heard  even  now. 

Comrade  of  feasts,  little  contriving  wight, 
One  of  your  secrets  I  would  gladly  know. 

Whether  the  glorious  power  you  now  show  forth 

Was  folded  up  within  you  at  your  birth, 


"Or  whether  mortal  taught  or  God  inspired 
The  power  of  unpremeditated  song  ? 

Many  divinest  sounds  have  I  admired 

The  Olympian  gods  and  mortal  men  among  ; 

But  .such  a  strain  of  wondrous,  strange,  untired, 
And  soul-awakening  music,  sweet  and  strong, 

Yet  did  I  never  hear  except  from  thee, 

Offspring  of  May,  impostor  Mercury  ! 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY.  689 


"  What  Muse,  what  skill,  what  onimagined  use. 
What  exercise  of  subtlest  art,  has  given 

Thy  songs  such  power  ?  for  those  who  hear  may  choose 
From  three,  the  choicest  of  the  gifts  of  Heaven, 

Delight  and  love  and  sleep  —  sweet  sleep,  whose  dews 
Are  sweeter  than  the  balmy  tears  of  even  : 

And  I,  who  speak  this  praise,  am  that  Apollo 

Whom  the  Olympian  Muses  ever  follow  : 


"  And  their  delight  is  dance,  and  the  blithe  noise 

Of  song  and  overflowing  poesy  ; 
And  sweet,  even  as  desire,  the  liquid  voice 

Of  pipes,  that  fills  the  clear  air  thrillingly ; 
But  never  did  my  inmost  soul  rejoice 

In  this  dear  work  of  youthful  revelry, 
As  now  I  wonder  at  thee,  son  of  Jove : 
Thy  harpings  and  thy  song  are  soft  as  love. 


"  Now  since  thou  hast,  although  so  very  small, 
Science  of  arts  so  glorious,  thus  I  swear  — 

And  let  this  cornel  javelin,  keen  and  tall, 
Witness  between  us  what  I  promise  here  : 

That  I  will  lead  thee  to  the  Olympian  hall. 
Honored  and  mighty,  with  thy  mother  dear, 

And  many  glorious  gifts  in  joy  will  give  thee, 

And  even  at  tlie  end  will  ne'er  deceive  thee." 

LXX  IX. 

To  whom  thus  Mercury  with  prudent  speech : 
"  Wisely  hast  thou  inquired  of  my  skill : 

I  envy  thee  no  thing  1  know  to  teach 

Even  this  day  :  lor  both  in  word  and  will 

I  would  be  gentle  with  thee  ;  thou  canst  reach 
All  things  in  thy  wise  spirit,  and  thy  sill 

Is  highest  in  heaven  among  the  sons  of  Jove, 

Who  loves  thee  in  the  fullness  of  his  love. 

LXXX. 

"  The  Counselor  Supreme  has  given  to  thee 
Divinest  gifts,  out  of  the  amplitude 

Of  his  profuse  exhaustless  treasury  ; 

By  thee,  'tis  said,  the  depths  are  understood 

Of  liis  far  voice  :  by  thee  the  mystery 

Of  all  oracular  fates  —  and  the  dread  mood 

Of  the  diviner  is  breathed  up,  even  1 — • 

A  child  —  perceive  thy  might  and  majesty  — 
44 


690  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


"  Thou  canst  seek  out  and  compass  all  that  wit 
Can  iind  or  teach ;  yet  since  thou  wilt,  come,  take 

The  lyre  —  be  mine  the  glory  giving  it  — 

Strike  the  sweet  chords,  and  sing  aloud,  and  wake 

Thy  joyous  pleasure  out  of  many  a  fit 

Of  tranced  sound  —  and  with  fleet  fingers  make 

Thy  liquid-voiced  comrade  talk  with  thee  — 

It  can  talk  measured  music  eloquently. 

LXXXII. 

"  Then  bear  it  boldly  to  the  revel  loud, 

Love-wakening  dance,  or  feast  of  solemn  state, 

A  .joy  by  night  or  day  ;  for  those  endowed 
With  art  and  wisdom  who  interrogate 

It  teaches,  babbling  in  delightful  mood, 

All  things  which  make  the  spirit  most  elate, 

Soothing  the  mind  with  sweet  familiar  play. 

Chasing  the  heavy  shadows  of  dismay. 

LXXXill. 

"  To  those  who  are  unskilled  in  its  sweet  tongue. 
Though  they  should  question  most  impetuously 

Its  hidden  soul,  it  gossips  something  wrong  — 
Some  senseless  and  impertinent  reply. 

But  thou  who  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  strong 
Can  compass  all  that  thou  desirest.     1 

Present  thee  with  this  music  flowing  shell. 

Knowing  thou  canst  interrogate  it  well, 

L  X  X  X  I  V. 

"  And  let  us  two  henceforth  together  feed 

On  this  green  mountain-slope  and  pastoral  plain, 

The  herds  in  litigation  —  they  will  breed 
duickiy  enough  to  recompense  our  pain. 

If  to  the  bulls  and  cows  we  take  good  heed  ; 
And  thou,  though  somewhat  overfond  of  gain. 

Grudge  me  not  half  the  profit."     Having  spoke. 

The  shell  he  proffered,  and  Apollo  took. 


And  gave  him  in  return  the  glittering  lash, 
Installing  him  as  herdsman  :  from  the  look 

Of  Mercury  then  laughed  a  joyous  flash  ; 
And  then  Apollo  with  the  plectrum  strook 

The  chords,  and  from  beneath  his  hands  a  crash 
Of  mighty  sounds  rushed  up,  who.se  music  shook 

The  soul  with  sweetness,  and  like  an  adept 

His  sweeter  voice  a  just  accordance  kept 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


The  herd  went  wandering  o'er  the  divine  mead, 
While  these  most  beautiful  sons  of  Jupiter 

Won  their  swift  way  up  to  the  snowy  head 
Of  white  Olympus,  with  the  joyous  lyre 

Soothing  their  journey  ;  and  their  father  dread 
Gathered  them  both  into  familiar 

Affection  sweet ;  and  then  and  now  and  ever 

Hermes  must  love  him  of  the  golden  quiver, 

LXXXVU. 

To  whom  he  gave  the  lyre  that  sweetly  sounded, 
Which  skillfully  he  held  and  played  thereon. 

He  piped  the  while,  and  far  and  wide  rebounded 
The  echo  of  his  pipings  ;  every  one 

Of  the  Olympians  sat  with  joy  astounded, 
While  he  conceived  another  piece  of  fun, 

One  of  his  old  tricks  —  which  the  god  of  Day 

Perceiving,  said,  "  I  fear  thee,  son  of  May  : 

L  X  X  X  v  I  I  I . 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  sly  chameleon  spirit. 

Lest  thou  should  steal  my  lyre  and  crooked  bow; 

This  glory  and  power  thou  dost  from  Jove  inherit, 
To  teach  all  craft  upon  the  earth  below^ : 

Thieves  love  and  worship  thee :  it  is  thy  merit 
To  make  all  mortal  business  ebb  and  tiow 

By  roguery  :  now,  Hermes,  if  you  dare 

By  sacred  Styx  a  mighty  oath  to  swear, 

LXXXIX. 

"  That  you  will  never  rob  me,  you  will  do 
A  thing  extremely  pleasing  to  my  heart." 

Then  Mercury  sware  by  the  Styi^ian  dew. 
That  he  would  never  steal  his  bow  or  dart, 

Or  lay  his  hands  on  what  to  him  v.as  due. 
Or  ever  would  employ  his  powerful  art 

Against  his  Pythian  fane.     Then  Phoibus  swore 

There  was  no  god  or  man  whom  he  loved  more. 


"  And  I  will  give  thee  as  a  goodwill  token 
The  beautiful  wand  of  wealth  and  liappiness ; 

A  perfect  three-leaved  rod  of  gold  unbroken, 
WliOse  magic  will  thy  footsteps  ever  bless ; 

And  whatsoever  by  Jove's  voice  is  spoken 
Of  earthly  or  divine  from  its  recess, 

It  like  a  loving  soul  to  thee  will  speak, 

And  more  than  this  do  ihuu  forbear  to  seek  : 


691 


692  HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


"  For,  dearest  child,  the  divinations  high 
Which  thou  requirest.  'tis  unlawful  ever 

That  thou,  or  any  other  deity. 

Should  understand  ;  and  vain  were  the  endeavor  , 

For  they  are  hidden  in  Jove's  mind,  and  I, 

In  trust  of  them,  have  sworn  that  I  would  never 

Betray  the  counsels  of  Jove's  inmost  will 

To  any  god  :  the  oath  was  terrible. 


"  Then,  golden-wanded  brother,  ask  me  not 
To  speak  the  fates  by  Jupiter  designed  ; 

But  be  it  mine  to  tell  their  various  lot 

To  the  unnumbered  tribes  of  human  kind. 

Let  good  to  these  and  ill  to  those  be  wrought 
As  I  dispense  ;  but  he  who  comes  consigned 

By  voice  and  w^ings  of  perfect  augury 

To  my  great  shrine,  shall  find  avail  in  me. 

xciir. 

'*  Him  will  1  not  deceive,  but  will  assist ; 

But  he  who  comes  relying  on  such  birds 
As  chatter  vainly,  who  would  strain  and  twist 

The  purpose  of  the  gods  with  idle  Avords, 
And  deems  their  knowledge  light,  he  shall  have  missed 

His  road  —  while  I  among  my  other  hoards 
His  gifts  deposit.     Yet,  O  son  of  May, 
I  have  another  wondrous  thing  to  say  : 


"  There  are  three  Fates,  three  virgin  sisters,  who, 
Rejoicing  in  their  w^ind-outspeeding  wings, 

Their  heads  with  flour  snowed  over  white  and  new, 
Sit  in  a  vale  round  which  Parnassus  flings 

Its  circling  skirts :  from  these  I  have  learned  true 
Vaticinations  of  remotest  things. 

My  father  cared  not.     While  they  search  out  dooms, 

They  sit  apart  and  feed  on  honeycombs. 


"  They,  having  eaten  the  fresh  honey,  grow 
Drunk  with  divine  enthusiasm,  and  utter 

With  earnest  willingness  the  truth  they  know ; 
But,  if  deprived  of  that  sweet  food,  they  mutter 

All  plausible  delusions  :  these  to  you 

I  give  :  if  you  inquire,  they  will  not  stutter  : 

Delight  your  own  soul  with  them  :  any  man 

You  would  iustruct  may  profit  if  he  can. 


SONNET.  693 


"  Take  these  and  the  fierce  oxen,  Maia's  child  — 
O'er  many  a  horse  and  toil-enduring  mule, 

O'er  jagged-jawed  lions,  and  the  wild 

White-tusked  boars,  o'er  all,  by  field  or  pool, 

Of  cattle  which  the  mighty  mother  mild 
Nourishes  in  her  bosom,  thou  shalt  rule  : 

Thou  dost  alone  the  vail  of  death  uplift  — 

Thou  givest  not  —  yet  this  is  a  great  gift." 


Thus  King  Apollo  loved  the  child  of  May 

In  truth,  and  Jove  covered  them  with  love  and  joy. 

Hermes  with  gods  and  men  even  from  that  day 
Mingled,  and  wrought  the  latter  much  annoy, 

And  little  profit,  going  far  astray 

Through  the  dun  night.     Farewell,  delightful  boy, 

Of  Jove  and  Maia  sprung  —  never  by  me. 

Nor  thou,  nor  other  song.s,  shall  unremembered  be. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GREEK   OF  MOSCHUS. 
T«>'  SXo  TCLv  yXavKciv  orav  ('ovc[xos  drpeixa  /JaXXjj, 

K.      T.      X. 

When  winds  that  move  not  its  calm  surface  sweep 
The  azure  sea,  I  love  the  land  no  more  : 
The  smiles  of  the  serene  and  tranquil  deep 
Tempt  my  unquiet  mind.     But  when  the  roar 
Of  ocean's  gray  abyss  resounds,  and  foam 
Gathers  upon  the  sea,  and  vast  waves  burst, 
I  turn  from  the  drear  aspect  to  the  home 
Of  earth  and  its  deep  woods,  where,  intersper-sed, 
When  winds  blow  loud,  pines  make  sweet  melody  ; 
Whose  house  is  some  lone  bark,  whose  toil  the  sea, 
Whose  prey,  the  wandering  fish,  an  evil  lot 
Has  chosen.     But  I  my  languid  limbs  will  fling 
Beneath  the  plain,  where  the  brook's  murmuring 
Moves  the  calm  spirit,  but  disturbs  it  not. 


SONNET.  — From  Moschus. 

Pan  loved  his  neighbor  Echo  —  but  that  child 
Of  Earth  and  Air  pined  for  the  Satyr  leaping ; 

The  Satyr  loved  with  wasting  madness  wild 

The  bright  nymph  Lyda  :  and  so  the  three  went  weeping. 


694  THE    CYCLOPS. 

As  Pan  loved  Echo,  Echo  loved  the  Satyr  ; 

The  Satyr,  Lyda  —  and  thus  love  consumed  them. 
And  thus  to  each  —  which  vv^as  a  woeful  matter  — 

To  bear  what  they  inflicted,  justice  doomed  them; 
For,  inasmuch  as  each  might  hale  the  lover 

Each,  loving,  so  was  hated.     Ye  that  love  not 
Be  warned  —  in  thought  turn  this  example  over, 

That,  when  ye  love,  the  like  return  ye  prove  not. 


THE  CYCLOPS: 

A     SATTRIC     DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE    GREEK   OF   EURIPIDES. 


SiLENus.  I  Ulysses. 

Chorus  of  Satyrs,  The  Cyclops. 


SILENUS. 

O  Bacchus,  what  a  world  of  toil,  both  now 

And  ere  these  limbs  were  overworn  with  age. 

Have  I  endured  for  thee  !     First,  when  thou  fled'st 

The  mountain-nymphs  who  nursed  thee,  driven  afar 

By  the  strange  madness  Juno  sent  upon  thee  ; 

Then  in  the  battle  of  the  sons  of  Earth, 

When  I  stood  foot  by  foot  close  to  thy  side, 

No  unpropitious  fellow-combatant. 

And,  driving  through  his  shield  my  winged  spear, 

Slew  vast  Enceladu.s.     Consider  now, 

Is  it  a  dream  of  which  I  speak  to  thee  ? 

By  Jove,  it  is  not,  for  you  have  the  trophies  ! 

And  now  I  suffer  more  than  all  before. 

For.  when  I  heard  that  Juno  had  devised 

A  tedious  voyage  for  you,  I  put  to  sea 

With  all  my  children  quaint  in  search  of  yoa, 

And  I  myself  stood  on  the  beaked  prow 

And  fixed  the  naked  mast ;  and  all  my  boys, 

Leaning  upon  their  oars,  with  splash  and  strain 

Made  white  with  foam  the  green  and  purple  sea  — 

And  so  we  sought  you,  king.     We  were  sailing 

Near  Malea,  when  an  eastern  wind  arose 

And  drove  us  to  this  wild  ^Etnean  rock  ; 

The  one-eyed  children  of  the  ocean-god, 

The  man-destroying  Cyclopses  inhabit. 

On  this  wild  shore,  their  solitary  caves  ; 

And  one  of  these,  named  Polypheme,  has  caaght  Hfl 

To  be  his  slaves ;  and  so,  for  ail  delight 


THE    CYCLOPS.  695 

Of  Bacchic  sports,  sweet  dance  and  melody, 

We  keep  this  lawless  giant's  wandering  flocks. 

My  sons  indeed,  on  far  declivities, 

Young  things  themselves,  tend  on  the  youngling  sheep. 

But  1  remain  to  fill  tlie  water-casks. 

Or  sweeping  the  hard  floor,  or  ministering 

Some  impious  and  abominable  meal 

To  the  fell  Cyclops.     1   am  wearied  of  it ! 

And  now  I  must  scrape  up  the  littered  floor 

With  this  great  iron  rake,  so  to  receive 

My  absent  master  and  his  evening  sheep 

In  a  cave  neat  and  clean.     Even  now  I  see 

My  children  tending  the  flocks  hitherward. 

Ha  !  what  is  this  ?  are  your  Sicinnian  measures 

Even  now  the  same  as  when  with  dance  and  song 

You  brought  young  Bacchus  to  Athaea's  halls  ? 


CHORUS  OF   SATYKS. 

STROPHE. 

Where  has  he  of  race  divine 
Wandered  in  the  winding  rocks  ? 
Here  the  air  is  calm  and  fine 
For  the  father  of  the  flocks ; 
Here  the  grass  is  soft  and  sweet, 
And  the  river  eddies  meet 
In  the  trough  beside  the  cave. 
Bright  as  in  their  fountain-wave. 
Neither  here,  nor  on  the  dew 
Of  the  lawny  uplands  feeding  ? 
Oh,  you  come  !  —  a  stone  at  you 
Will  I  throw  to  mend  your  breeding  ; 
Get  along,  you  horned  thing, 
Wild,  seditions,  rambling ! 

EPODE.* 

An  lacchic  melody 

To  the  golden  Aphrodite 

Will  I  lift,  as  erst  did  I 

Seeking  her  and  her  delight 

With  the  Maenads,  whose  white  feet 

To  the  music  glance  and  fleet. 

Bacchus,  O  beloved,  where, 

Shaking  wide  thy  yellow  hail-, 

Wanderest  thou  alone,  afar  ? 

To  the  one-eyed  Cyclops,  we. 

Who  by  right  thy  servants  are, 

Minister  in  mi.sery. 

In  these  wretched  goatskins  clad. 

Far  from  thy  delights  and  thee. 

SILENUS. 

Be  silent,  sons ;  command  the  slaves  to  drive 
The  gathered  flocks  into  the  rock-roofed  cave. 

*  Th«  Antiatropbe  i»  omitted. 


696  THE    CYCLOPS. 

CHORUS. 

Go  !     But  what  needs  this  serious  haste,  O  father  ? 

SILENUS. 

I  sec  a  Grecian  vessel  on  the  coast, 

And  thence  the  rowers,  with  some  general, 

Approaching  to  this  cave.     About  their  necks 

Hang  empty  vessels,  as  they  wanted  food, 

And  water-flasks.     O  miserable  strangers  ! 

Whence  come  they,  that  they  know  not  what  and  who 

My  master  is,  approaching  in  ill  hour 

The  inhospitable  roof  of  Polypheme, 

And  the  Cyclopean  jawbone,  man-destroying  ? 

Be  silent.  Satyrs,  while  I  ask  and  hear. 

Whence  coming,  they  arrive  the  iEtneau  hill. 

ULYSSES. 

Friends,  can  you  show  me  some  clear  water  spring, 
The  remedy  of  our  thirst  ?     Will  any  one 
Furnish  with  food  seamen  in  want  of  it  ? 
Ha  !  what  is  this  ?     We  seem  to  be  arrived 
At  the  blithe  court  of  Bacchus.     I  observe 
This  sportive  band  of  Satyrs  near  the  caves. 
First  let  me  greet  the  elder.  —  Hail ! 

SILENUS. 

Hail  thou, 

0  stranger  !  tell  thy  country  and  thy  race. 

ULYSSES. 

The  Ithacan  Ulysses  and  the  king 
Of  Cephalonia. 

SILENUS. 

Oh  !  I  know  the  man. 

Wordy  and  shrewd,  the  son  of  Sysiphus. 

ULYSSES. 

1  am  the  same,  but  do  not  rail  upon  me. 

SILENUS. 

Whence  sailing  do  you  come  to  Sicily  ? 

ULYSSES. 

From  Ilion,  and  from  the  Trojan  toils. 

SILENUS. 

How  touched  you  not  at  your  paternal  shore  ? 

ULYSSES. 

The  strength  of  tempests  bore  me  here  by  force. 

SILENUS. 

The  selfsame  accident  occurred  to  me. 

ULYSSES. 

Were  you  then  driven  here  by  stress  of  weather  ? 

SILENUS. 

Following  the  pirates  who  had  kidnapped  Bacchus. 


THE    CYCLOPS.  697 

ULYSSES. 

What  land  is  this,  and  who  inhabits  it  ?  — 

SILENUS. 

^tna,  the  loftiest  peak  in  Sicily. 

ULYSSES. 

And  are  there  walls,  and  tower-surrounded  towns  ? 

SILENUS. 

There  are  not.    These  lone  rocks  are  bare  of  men. 

ULYSSES. 

And  who  possess  the  land  ?  the  race  of  beasts  ? 

SILENUS, 

Cyclops,  who  live  in  caverns,  not  in  houses. 

ULYSSES. 

Obeying  whom  ?     Or  is  the  state  popular  ? 

SILENUS, 

Shepherds :  no  one  obeys  any  in  aught, 

ULYSSES, 

How  live  they  ?  do  they  sow  the  com  of  Ceres  ? 

SILENUS. 

On  milk  and  cheese,  and  on  the  flesh  of  sheep. 

ULYSSES, 

Have  they  the  Bromian  drink  from  the  vine's  stream  ? 

SILENUS. 

Ah  !  no  ;  they  live  in  an  ungracious  land, 

ULYSSES, 

And  are  they  just  to  strangers  ?  —  hospitable  ? 

SILENUS. 

They  think  the  sweetest  thing  a  stranger  brings, 
Is  his  own  flesh. 

ULYSSES. 

What,  do  they  eat  man's  flesh  ? 

SILENUS, 

No  one  comes  here  who  is  not  eaten  up. 

ULYSSES. 

The  Cyclops  now  —  where  is  he  ?    Not  at  home  ? 

SILENUS. 

Absent  on  JEtna.,  hunting  with  his  dogs. 

ULYSSES. 

Know'st  thou  what  thou  must  do  to  aid  us  hence  ? 

SILENUS. 

I  know  not :  we  will  help  you  all  we  can. 

ULYSSES. 

Provide  us  food,  of  which  we  are  in  want. 


698  THE    CYCLOPS. 

SILENUS. 

Here  is  not  any  thing,  as  I  said,  but  meat. 

ULYSSES. 

But  meat  is  a  sweet  remedy  for  hunger. 

SILESUS. 

Cow's  milk  there  is,  and  store  of  curdled  cheese  — 

ULYSSES. 

Bring  out :  I  would  see  all  before  I  bargain. 

SlLENUS. 

But  how  much  gold  will  you  engage  to  give  ? 

ULYSSES. 

I  bring  no  gold,  but  Bacchic  juice. 

SILENUS. 

O  joy ! 
'Tis  long  since  these  dry  lips  were  wet  with  wine. 

ULYSSES. 

Maron,  the  son  of  the  god,  gave  it  me. 

SILENUS. 

Whom  I  have  nursed  a  baby  in  my  arms. 

ULYSSES. 

The  son  of  Bacchus,  for  your  clearer  knowledge. 

SILENUS. 

Have  you  it  now  ?  or  is  it  in  the  ship  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Old  man,  this  skin  contains  it,  which  you  see. 

SILENUS. 

Why  this  would  hardly  be  a  mouthful  for  me. 

ULYSSES. 

Nay,  twice  as  much  as  you  can  draw  from  thence. 

SILENUS. 

You  speak  of  a  fair  fountain,  sweet  to  me. 

ULYSSES. 

Would  you  first  taste  of  the  unmingled  wine  ? 

SILENUS. 

'Tis  just  —  tasting  invites  the  purchaser. 

ULYSSES. 

Here  is  the  cup,  together  with  the  skin. 

SILENUS. 

Pour  :  that  the  draught  may  fillip  my  remembrance. 

ULYSSES. 

See! 

SILENUS. 

PapaiapsBX  !  what  a  sweet  smell  it  has ! 


THE    CYCLOPS.  699 

ULYSSES. 

You  see  it  then  ?  — 

SILENLS. 

By  Jove,  no  !  but  I  smell  it. 

ULYSSES. 

Taste,  that  you  may  not  praise  it  in  words  only, 

SILENUS. 

Babai !    Great  Bacchus  calls  me  forth  to  dance  ! 
Joy !  joy  ! 

ULYSSES. 

Did  it  flow  sweetly  down  your  throat  ? 

SILENUS. 

So  that  it  tingled  to  my  very  nails. 

ULYSSES. 

And  in  addition  I  will  give  you  gold. 

SILENUS. 

Let  gol9  alone  !  only  unlock  the  cask. 

ULYSSES. 

Bring  out  some  cheeses  nov/,  or  a  young  goat. 

SILENUS. 

That  will  I  do,  despising  any  master. 
Yes,  let  mo  drink  one  cup,  and  1  will  give 
All  that  the  Cyclops  feed  upon  their  mountains. 

•  «*««• 

CHORUS. 

Ye  have  taken  Troy,  and  laid  your  hands  on  Helen  ? 

ULYSSES. 

And  utterly  destroyed  the  race  of  Priam. 

SILENUS. 

♦  «  *  «  «  * 

The  wanton  wretch  !  She  was  bewitched  to  see 

The  many-colored  anklets  and  the  chain 

Of  woven  gold  which  girt  the  neck  of  Paris, 

And  so  she  left  that  good  man  Menelaus. 

There  should  be  no  more  women  in  the  world 

But  such  as  are  reserved  for  me  alone.  ^ 

See,  here  are  sheep,  and  here  are  goats,  Ulysses 

Here  are  unsparing  cheeses  of  pressed  milk  ; 

Take  them  :  depart  with  what  good  speed  ye  may  ; 

First  leaving  my  reward,  the  Bacchic  dew 

Of  joy -inspiring  grapes. 

ULYSSES. 

Ah  me  !     Alas  ! 
Wliat  shall  we  do  ?  the  Cyclops  is  at  hand ! 
Old  man,  we  perish  !  whither  can  we  fly  ? 

SILENUS. 

Hide  yourselves  quick  within  that  hollow  rock. 


700  THE    CYCLOPS. 

ULYSSES. 

'Twere  perilous  to  fly  into  the  net. 

SILENUS. 

The  cavern  has  recesses  numberless  : 
Hide  yourselves  quick ! 

ULYSSES. 

That  will  I  never  do  ! 
The  mighty  Troy  would  be  indeed  disgraced 
If  I  should  fly  one  man.     How  many  times 
Have  I  withstood  with  shield  immovable 
Ten  thousand  Phrygians  !  —  If  I  needs  must  die, 
Yet  will  I  die  with  glory :  if  I  live, 
The  praise  which  I  have  gained  will  yet  remain. 

SILENUS. 

What,  ho  !  assistance,  comrades,  haste,  assistance  ! 

The  CYCLOPS,  SILENUS,  ULYSSES;  CHORUS 
CYCLOPS. 

What  is  this  tumult  ?     Bacchus  is  not  here. 
Nor  tympanies  nor  brazen  castanets. 
How^  are  my  young  lambs  in  the  cavern  ?  Milking 
Their  dams,  or  playing  by  their  sides  ?     And  is 
The  new  cheese  pressed  into  the  bullrush  baskets  ? 
Speak  !  I'll  beat  some  of  you  till  you  rain  tears  — 
Look  up,  not  downward,  when  I  speak  to  you  ! 

SILENUS. 

See  !  I  now  gape  at  Jupiter  himself, 
1  stare  upon  Orion  and  the  stars. 

CYCLOPS. 

Well,  is  the  dinner  fitly  cooked  and  laid  ! 

SILENUS. 

All  ready,  if  your  throat  is  ready  too. 

CYCLOPS. 

Are  the  bowls  full  of  milk  besides  ? 

SILENUS. 

O'erbrimming 
So  you  may  drink  a  tunfuU  if  you  will. 

CYCLOPS. 

Is  it  ewe's  milk,  or  cow's  milk,  or  both  mixed  ? 

SILENUS. 

Both,  either ;  only  pray  don't  swallow  me. 

CYCLOPS. 

By  no  means. 

•  *«*«• 

What  is  this  crowd  I  see  beside  the  stalls  ? 
Outlaws  or  thieves  ?  for  near  my  cavern  home 
I  see  my  young  lambs  coupled  two  by  two 


THE    CYCLOPS. 

With  willow  bands :  mixed  with  my  cheeses  lie 
Their  implements  :  and  this  old  fellow  here 
Has  his  bald  head  broken  with  stripes. 

SILENUS. 

Ah  me ! 
I  have  been  beaten  till  I  burn  with  fever. 

CYCLOPS. 

By  whom  ?     Who  laid  his  fist  upon  your  head  ? 

SILENUS. 

Those  men,  because  I  would  not  suffer  them 
To  steal  your  goods. 

CYCLOPS. 

Did  not  the  rascals  know 
I  am  a  god,  sprung  from  the  race  of  heaven  ? 

SILENUS. 

I  told  them  so,  but  they  bore  off  your  things, 
And  ate  the  cheese  in  spite  of  all  I  said, 
And  carried  out  the  lambs  —  and  said,  moreover, 
They'd  pin  you  down  with  a  three-cubit  collar. 
And  pull  your  vitals  out  through  your  one  eye. 
Torture  your  back  with  stripes  ;  then,  binding  you, 
Throw  you  as  ballast  into  the  ship's  hold, 
And  then  deliver  you,  a  slave,  to  move 
Enormous  rocks,  or  found  a  vestibule. 

CYCLOPS. 

In  truth  ?     Nay,  haste,  and  place  in  order  quickly 

The  cooking-knives,  and  heap  upon  the  hearth, 

And  kindle  it,  a  great  fagot  of  wood.  — 

As  soon  as  they  are  slaughtered,  they  shall  fill 

My  belly,  broiling  warm  from  the  live  coals. 

Or  boiled  and  seethed  within  the  bubbling  caldrou. 

I  am  quite  sick  of  the  wild  mountain  game  : 

Of  stags  and  lions  1  have  gorged  enough, 

And  I  grow  hungry  for  the  flesh  of  men. 

SILENUS. 

Nay,  master,  something  new  is  very  pleasant 

After  one  thing  for  ever,  and  of  late 

Very  few  strangers  have  approached  our  cave. 

ULYSSES. 

Hear,  Cyclops,  a  plain  tale  on  the  other  side : 
We,  wanting  to  buy  food,  came  from  our  ship 
Into  the  neighborhood  of  your  cave,  and  here 
This  old  Silenus  gave  us  in  exchange 
These  lambs  for  wine,  the  which  he  took  and  drank, 
And  all  by  mutual  compact,  without  force. 
There  is  no  word  of  truth  in  what  he  says, 
For  slyly  he  was  selling  all  your  store. 

SILENUS. 

I?    May  you  perish,  wretch  — 


701 


702  THE    CYCLOPS. 

ULYSSES. 

If  I  speak  false ! 

S1I.ENUS. 

Cyclops,  I  swear  by  Neptune  who  begot  thee, 
By  mighty  Triton,  and  by  Nereus  old, 
Calypso  and  the  glaucous  ocean-nymphs, 
The  sacred  waves  and  all  the  race  of  fishes  — 
Be  these  the  witnesses,  my  dear  sweet  master, 
My  darling  little  Cyclops  —  that  I  never 
Gave  any  of  your  stores  to  these  false  strangers. 
If  I  speak  false  may  those  whom  most  I  love. 
My  children,  perish  wretchedly  ! 

CHORUS. 

There  stop  ! 
I  saw  him  giving  these  things  to  the  strangers. 
If  I  speak  false,  then  may  my  father  perish, 
Bat  do  not  thou  wrong  hospitality. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  lie  !    I  swear  that  he  is  juster  far 

Than  Rhadamanthus —  1  trust  more  in  him. 

But  let  me  ask,  whence  have  ye  sailed,  O  strangers  ? 

W  ho  are  you  ?  and  what  city  nourished  ye  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Our  race  is  Ithacan.     Having  destroyed 
The  town  of  Troy,  the  tempests  of  the  sea 
Have  driven  us  on  thy  land,  O  Polypheme. 

CYCLOPS. 

"What,  have  ye  shared  in  the  unenvied  spoil 
Of  the  false  Helen,  near  Scamander's  stream  ? 

ULYSSES. 

The  same,  having  endured  a  woeful  toil. 

CYCLOPS. 

O  basest  expedition  !  sailed  ye  not 

From  Greece  to  Phrygia  for  one  woman's  sake  ? 

ULYSSES. 

'Twas  the  gods'  work  —  no  mortal  was  in  fault. 
But,  O  great  offspring  of  the  ocean-king  ! 
We  pray  thee  and  admonish  thee  with  freedom, 
That  thou  dost  spare  thy  friends  who  visit  thee, 
And  place  no  impious  food  within  thy  jaws. 
For  in  the  depths  of  Greece  we  have  upreared 
Temples  to  thy  great  father,  which  are  all 
His  homes.     The  sacred  bay  of  Tfenarus 
Remains  inviolate,  and  each  dim  recess 
Scooped  high  on  the  Malean  promontory, 
And  aery  Sunium's  silver- veined  crag, 
Which  divine  Pallas  keeps  unprofaned  ever, 
The  Gerastian  a.sylums,  and  whateer 
Within  wide  Greece  our  enterprise  has  kept 


THE    CYCLOPS. 

From  Phrygian  oontumely  ;  and  in  which 

You  have  a  common  care,  for  you  inhabit 

The  skirts  of  Grecian  land,  under  the  roots 

Of  iEtna  and  its  crags,  spotted  with  fire. 

Turn  then  to  converse  under  human  laws  ; 

Receive  us  shipwrecked  suppliants,  and  provide 

Food,  clothes  and  fire  and  hospitable  gifts : 

Nor,  fixing  upon  oxen-piercing  spits 

Our  limbs,  so  till  your  belly  and  your  jaws. 

Priam's  wide  land  has  widowed  Greece  enough  ; 

And  weapon-winged  murder  heaped  together 

Enough  of  dead,  and  wives  are  husbandiesg, 

And  ancient  women  and  gray  fathers  wail 

Their  childless  age ;  if  you  should  roast  the  rest, 

And  'tis  a  bitter  feast  that  you  prepare. 

Where  then  would  any  turn  ?     Yet  be  persuaded ; 

Forego  the  lu.st  of  your  jawbone  ;  prefer 

Pious  humanity  to  wicked  will ; 

Many  have  bought  too  dear  their  evil  joys. 

SILENUS. 

Let  me  advise  you :  do  not  spare  a  morsel 
Of  all  his  flesh.     If  you  should  eat  his  tongue, 
You  would  become  most  eloquent,  O  Cyclops  ! 


Wealth,  my  good  fellow,  is  the  wise  man's  god ; 

All  other  things  are  a  pretence  and  boast. 

What  are  my  father's  ocean  promontories. 

The  sacred  rocks  whereon  he  dwells,  to  me  ? 

Stranger,  I  laugh  to  scorn  Jove's  thunderbolt, 

I  know  not  that  his  strength  is  more  than  mine. 

As  to  the  rest,  I  care  not.     When  he  pours 

Rain  from  above,  I  have  a  close  pavilion 

Under  this  rock,  in  which  I  lie  supine, 

Feasting  on  a  roast  calf  or  some  wild  beast. 

And  drinking  pans  of  milk,  and  gloriously 

Emulating  the  thunder  of  high  Heaven. 

And  when  the  Thracian  wind  pours  down  the  snow, 

I  wrap  my  body  in  the  skins  of  beasts, 

Kindle  a  tire,  and  bid  the  snow  whirl  on. 

The  earth  by  force,  whether  it  will  or  no. 

Bringing  forth  grass,  fattens  my  iiocks  and  herds, 

Which,  to  what  other  god  but  to  myself 

And  this  great  belly,  tirst  of  deities, 

Should  I  be  bound  to  sacrifice.     I  well  know 

The  wise  man's  only  Jupiter  is  this  — 

To  eat  and  drink  during  his  little  day, 

And  give  himself  no  care.     And  as  for  those 

Who  complicate  with  laws  the  life  of  man, 

I  freely  give  them  tears  for  their  reward. 

I  will  not  cheat  my  soul  of  its  delight, 

Or  hesitate  in  dining  upon  you : 

And  that  I  may  be  quit  of  all  demands, 


703 


704  THE    CYCLOPS. 

These  are  my  hospitable  gifts  —  fierce  fire 
And  yon  ancestral  caldron,  which  o'erbubbling 
Shall  finely  cook  your  miserable  iiesh. 
Creep  in !  — 


ULTSSES. 

Ay,  ay  !    I  have  escaped  the  Trojan  toils, 
I  have  escaped  the  sea,  and  now  I  fall 
Under  the  cruel  grasp  of  one  impious  man. 
O  Pallas,  mistress,  goddess,  sprung  from  Jove, 
Now,  now,  assist  me  !     Mightier  toils  than  Troy 
Are  these  :  I  totter  on  the  chasms  of  peril ; 
And  thou  who  inhabitest  the  thrones 
Of  the  bright  stars,  look,  hospitable  Jove, 
Upon  this  outrage  of  thy  deity. 
Otherwise  be  considered  as  no  God. 

CHORUS  (alone). 
For  your  gaping  gulf  and  your  gullet  wide 
The  ravine  is  ready  on  every  side  ; 
The  limbs  of  the  strangers  are  cooked  and  done, 
There  is  boiled  meat  and  roast  meat  and  meat  from  the  coal, 
You  may  chop  it  and  tear  it  and  gnash  it  for  fun, 
A  hairy  goatskin  contains  the  whole. 
Let  me  but  escape,  and  ferry  me  o'er 
The  stream  of  your  wrath  to  a  safer  shore. 

The  Cyclops  jEtnean  is  cruel  and  bold, 

He  murders  the  strangers 
That  sit  on  his  hearth, 

And  dreads  no  avengers 
To  rise  from  the  earth. 
He  roasts  the  men  before  they  are  cold, 
He  snatches  them  broiling  from  the  coal, 
And  from  the  caldron  pulls  them  whole, 
And  minces  their  flesh  and  gnaws  their  bone 
With  his  cursed  teeth,  till  all  be  gone. 

Farewell,  foul  pavilion ! 

Farewell,  rites  of  dread  ! 
The  Cyclops  vermillion, 
With  slaughter  uncloying, 

Now  feasts  on  the  dead, 
In  the  flesh  of  strangers  joying  ! 


O  Jupiter  !  I  saw  within  the  cave 

Horrible  things  :  deeds  to  be  feigned  in  words, 

But  not  believed  as  being  done. 


What!  sawest  thou  the  impious  Polypheme 
Feasting  upon  your  loved  companions  now  ? 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


Selecting  two,  tlie  plumpest  of  the  crowd, 
He  grasped  them  in  his  hands.  — 

CHORUS. 

Unhappy  man ! 

ULYSSES. 

Soon  as  we  came  into  this  craggy  place, 

Kindling  a  fire,  he  cast  on  the  broad  hearth 

The  knotty  limbs  of  an  enormous  oak, 

Three  wagon-loads  at  least,  and  then  he  strewed 

Upon  the  ground,  beside  the  red  firelight, 

His  couch  of  pine-leaves;  and  he  milked  the  cows, 

And  pouring  forth  the  white  milk,  filled  a  bowl 

Three  cubits  wide  and  four  in  depth,  as  much 

As  would  contain  four  amphorae,  and  bound  it 

With  ivy  wreaths;  then  placed  upon  the  fire 

A  brazen  pot  to  boil,  and  made  red  hot 

The  points  of  spits,  not  sharpened  with  the  sickle. 

But  with  a  fruit-tree  bough,  and  with  the  jaws 

Of  axes  for  jEtnean  slaughterings.* 

And  when  this  God-abandoned  cook  of  hell 

Had  made  all  ready,  he  seized  two  of  us, 

And  killed  them  in  a  kind  of  raea.sured  manner ; 

For  he  flung  one  against  the  brazen  rivets 

Of  the  huge  caldron,  and  seized  the  other 

By  the  foot's  tendon,  and  knocked  out  his  brains 

Upon  the  sharp  edge  of  the  craggy  stone  ; 

Then  peeled  his  flesh  with  a  great  cooking-knife, 

And  put  him  down  to  roast.     The  other's  limbs 

He  chopped  into  the  caldron  to  be  boiled. 

And  I,  with  the  tears  raining  from  my  eyes, 

Stood  near  the  Cyclops,  ministering  to  him  : 

The  rest,  in  the  recesses  of  the  cave, 

Clung  to  the  rock  like  bats,  bloodless  with  fear. 

When  he  was  filled  with  my  companions'  flesh, 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground,  and  sent 

A  loathsome  exhalation  from  his  maw. 

Then  a  divine  thought  came  to  me  :    I  filled 

The  cup  of  Maron,  and  I  offered  him 

To  taste,  and  said,  "  Child  of  the  ocean-god. 

Behold  what  drink  the  vines  of  Greece  produce, 

The  exaltation  and  the  joy  of  Bacchus!" 

He,  satiated  with  his  unnatural  food, 

Keceived  it,  and  at  one  draught  drank  it  off. 

And,  taking  my  hand,  praised  me  :  '•  Thou  hast  given 

A  sweet  draught  after  a  sweet  meal,  dear  guest.'" 

And  1,  perceiving  that  it  pleased  him,  filled 

Another  cup,  well  knowing  that  the  wine 

Would  wound  him  soon  and  take  a  sure  revenge. 

And  the  charm  fascinated  him,  and  I 

■•  I  confess  I  do  not  undersUnd  this.  —  jVof<  of  th<  author. 
45 


705 


706  THE    CYCLOPS. 

Plied  him  cup  after  cap,  until  the  drink 
Had  warmed  his  entrails,  and  he  sang  aloud 
In  concert  with  my  wailing  fellow-seamen 
A  hideous  discord  —  and  the  cavern  rung. 
I  have  stolen  oat,  so  that  if  you  will 
You  may  achieve  my  safety'and  your  own. 
But  say,  do  you  desire,  or  not,  to  fly 
This  uncompanionable  man,  and  dwell, 
As  was  your  wont,  among  the  Grecian  nymphs, 
Within  the  fanes  of  your  beloved  god  ? 
Your  father  there  within  agrees  to  it, 
But  he  is  weak  and  overcome  with  wine, 
And  caught  as  if  with  birdlime  by  the  cup, 
He  claps  his  wings  and  crows  in  doating  joy. 
You  who  are  young  escape  with  me,  and  find 
Bacchus  your  ancient  friend  ;  unsuited  he 
To  this  rude  Cyclops. 

CHORUS. 

O  my  dearest  friend, 
That  I  could  see  that  day,  and  leave  for  ever 
The  impious  Cyclops. 

»♦*»♦* 

ULYSSES. 

Listen,  then,  w^hat  a  punishment  I  have 
For  this  fell  monster,  how  secure  a  flight 
From  your  hard  servitude. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  sweeter  far 
Than  is  the  music  of  an  Asian  lyre 
Would  be  the  news  of  Polypheme  destroyed. 

ULYSSES. 

Delighted  with  the  Bacchic  drink,  he  goes 
To  call  his  brother  Cyclops  —  who  inhabit 
A  village  upon  -^tna  not  far  off. 

CHORUS. 

I  understand  :  catching  him  when  alone, 
You  think  by  some  measure  to  dispatch  him, 
Or  thrust  him  from  the  precipice. 

ULYSSES. 

O  no; 
Nothing  of  that  kind  ;  my  device  is  subtle. 

CHORUS. 

How,  then  ?     I  heard  of  old  that  thou  wert  wise. 

ULYSSES. 

I  will  dissuade  him  from  this  plan,  by  saying 

It  were  unwise  to  give  the  Cyclopses 

This  precious  drink,  which  if  enjoyed  alone 

Would  make  life  sweeter  for  a  longer  time. 

When  vanquished  by  the  Bacchic  power,  he  sleep? 


THE    CYCLOPS. 

There  is  a  trunk  of  olive  wood  within, 

Whose  point,  having  made  sharp  with  this  good  sword, 

I  will  conceal  in  fire,  and  when  I  see 

It  is  alight,  will  fix  it,  burning  yet. 

Within  the  socket  of  the  Cyclops'  eye. 

And  melt  it  out  with  fire  —  as  when  a  man 

Turns  by  its  handle  a  great  augur  round. 

Fitting  the  framework  of  a  ship  with  beams, 

So  will  I  in  the  Cyclops'  fiery  eye 

Turn  round  the  brand,  and  dry  the  pupil  up. 

CHORUS. 

Joy  !  I  am  mad  with  joy  at  your  device. 

ULYSSES. 

And  then  with  you,  my  friends,  and  the  old  man, 
We'll  load  the  hollow  depth  of  our  black  ship. 
And  row  with  double  strokes  from  this  dread  shore. 

CHORUS. 

May  I,  as  in  libations  to  a  god. 

Share  in  the  blinding  him  with  the  red  brand  ? 

I  would  have  some  communion  in  his  death. 

ULYSSES. 

Doubtless :  the  brand  is  a  great  brand  to  hold. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  !  I  would  lift  a  hundred  wagon-loads, 

If  Uke  a  wasp's  nest  I  could  scoop  the  eye  out 

Of  the  detested  Cyclops. 

ULYSSES. 

Silence  now ! 
Ye  know  the  close  device  :  and  when  I  call, 
Look  ye  obey  the  masters  of  the  craft. 
I  will  not  save  myself  and  leave  behind 
My  comrades  in  the  cave  :  I  might  escape, 
Having  got  clear  from  that  obscure  recess, 
But  'twere  unjust  to  leave  in  jeopardy 
The  dear  companions  who  sailed  here  with  me. 

CHORUS. 

Come  !  who  is  first,  that  with  his  hand 
Will  urge  down  the  burning  brand 
Through  the  lids,  and  quench  the  pierce 
The  Cyclops'  eye  so  fiery  fierce  ? 

SEMicHORUS  I. —  Song  within. 
Listen  !  listen  !  he  is  coming, 
A  most  hideous  discord  humming. 
Drunken,  museless,  awkward,  yelling. 
Far  along  his  rocky  dwelling  ; 
Let  us  with  some  comic  spell 
Teach  the  yet  unteachablc. 
By  all  means  he  must  be  blinded, 
If  my  counsel  be  but  minded. 


707 


708  THE    CYCLOPS. 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Happy  those  made  odorous 

With  the  dew  which  sweet  grapes  weep, 

To  the  village  hastening  thus, 

Seek  the  vines  that  soothe  to  sleep 

Having  first  embraced  thy  friend, 

There  in  luxury  without  end, 

With  the  strings  of  yellow  hair 

Of  thy  voluptuous  leman  fair, 

Shalt  sit  playing  on  a  bed  !  — 

Speak,  what  door  is  opened  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  I'm  full  of  wine, 

Heavy  with  the  joy  divine, 

With  the  young  feast  oversated. 

Like  a  merchant's  vessel  freighted 

To  the  water's  edge,  my  crop 

Is  laden  to  the  gullet's  top. 

The  fresh  meadow-grass  of  spring 

Tempts  me  forth,  thus  wandering 

To  my  brothers  on  the  mountains. 

Who  shall  share  the  wine's  sweet  fountains. 

Bring  the  cask,  O  stranger,  bring  ! 

CHORUS. 

One  with  eyes  the  fairest 

Cometh  from  his  dwelling ; 

Some  one  loves  thee,  rarest, 

Bright  beyond  my  telling. 

In  thy  grace  thou  shinest 

Like  some  nymph  diviuest, 

In  her  caverns  dewy ; 

All  delights  pursue  thee, 

Soon  pied  flowers,  sweet-breathing, 

Shall  thy  head  be  wreathing. 

ULYSSKS. 

L,isten,  O  Cyclops  !  for  I  am  well  skilled 
In  Bacchus,  whom  I  gave  thee  of  to  drink. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  sort  of  god  is  Bacchus  then  accounted  ? 

ULYSSES. 

The  greatest  among  men  for  joy  of  life. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  gulped  him  down  with  very  great  delight. 

ULYSSES. 

This  is  a  god  who  never  injures  men. 

CYCLOPS. 

How  does  the  god  like  living  in  a  skin  ? 

ULYSSES. 

He  is  content  wherever  he  is  put. 


THE    CYCLOPS.  709 

CYCLOPS. 

Gods  should  not  have  their  body  in  a  skin. 

ULYSSES. 

If  he  give  joy,  what  is  his  skin  to  you  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I  hate  the  skin,  but  love  the  wine  within. 

ULYSSES. 

Stay  here  :  now  drink,  and  make  your  spirit  glad. 

CYCLOPS. 

Should  I  not  share  this  liquor  with  my  brothers  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Keep  it  yourself,  and  be  more  honored  so. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  were  more  useful,  giving  to  my  friends. 

ULYSSES. 

But  village  mirth  breeds  contests,  broils  and  blows. 

CYCLOPS. 

When  I  am  drunk  none  shall  lay  hands  on  me. — 

ULYSSES. 

A  drunken  man  is  better  within  doors. 

CYCLOPS. 

He  is  a  fool,  who  drinking,  loves  not  mirth. 

ULYSSES. 

But  he  is  wise,  who  drunk,  remains  at  home. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  shall  I  do,  Silenus  ?     Shall  I  stay  ? 

SILENUS. 

Stay  —  for  what  need  have  you  of  pot-companions  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

Indeed  this  place  is  closely  carpeted 
With  flowers  and  grass. 

SILENUS, 

And  in  the  sun-warm  noon 
'Tis  sweet  to  drink.     Lie  down  beside  me  now, 
Placing  your  mighty  sides  upon  the  ground. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  do  you  put  the  cup  behind  me  for  ? 

SILENUS. 

That  no  one  here  may  touch  it. 

CYCLOPS. 

Thievish  one  ? 
You  want  to  drink  :  here  place  it  in  the  midst. 
And  thou,  O  stranger,  tell  how  art  thou  called  ? 


710  THE    CYCLOPS. 

ULYSSES. 

My  name  is  Nobody.     "What  favor  now 
Shall  I  receive  to  praise  you  at  your  hands  ? 

CYCLOPS, 

I'll  feast  on  you  the  last  of  your  companions. 

ULYSSES. 

You  grant  your  guest  a  fair  reward,  O  Cyclops. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha  !  what  is  this  ?    Stealing  the  wine,  you  rogue  ! 

SILENUS. 

It  was  this  stranger  kissing  me,  because 
I  looked  so  beautiful. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  shall  repent 
For  kissing  the  coy  wine  that  loves  you  not. 

SILENUS. 

By  Jupiter  !  you  said  that  I  am  fair. 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour  out,  and  only  give  me  the  cup  full. 

SILENUS. 

How  is  it  mixed  ?     Let  me  observe. 

CYCLOPS. 

Curse  you ! 
Give  it  me  so. 

SILENUS. 

Not  till  I  see  you  wear 
That  coronal,  and  taste  the  cup  to  you, 

CYCLOPS. 

Thou  wily  traitor ! 

SILENUS. 

But  the  wine  is  sweet. 
Ay,  you  will  roar  if  you  are  caught  in  drinking. 

CYCLOPS. 

See  now,  my  lip  is  clean  and  all  my  beard. 

SILENUS. 

Now  put  your  elbow  right,  and  drink  again. 
As  you  see  me  drink —       *       *       #       * 

CYCLOPS. 

How  now  ? 

SILENUS. 

Ye  gods !  what  a  delicious  gulp  ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Guest,  take  it :  you  pour  out  the  wine  for  me. 

ULYSSES. 

The  wine  is  well  accustomed  to  my  hand. 


THE    CYCLOPS.  711 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour  out  the  wine  ! 

ULYSSK3. 

I  pour  —  only  be  silent. 

CYCLOPS. 

Silence  is  a  hard  task  to  him  who  drinks. 

ULYSSES. 

Take  it  and  drink  it  off:  leave  not  a  dreg. 

0  that  the  drinker  died  with  his  own  draught ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Papai !  the  vine  must  be  a  sapient  plant. 

ULYSSES. 

If  you  drink  much  after  a  mighty  feast, 
Moistening  your  thirsty  maw,  you  will  sleep  well ; 
If  you  leave  aught,  Bacchus  will  dry  j'ou  up. 

0  CYCLOPS. 

Ho  !  ho !  I  can  scarce  rise.     What  pure  delight ! 
The  heavens  and  earth  appear  to  whirl  about 
Confusedly.     I  see  the  throne  of  Jove 
And  the  clear  congregation  of  the  gods. 
Now  if  the  Graces  tempted  me  to  kis.s, 

1  would  not,  for  the  loveliest  of  them  all 
I  would  not  leave  this  Ganymede. 

SILENUS. 

Polypheme, 
I  am  the  Ganymede  of  Jupiter. 

CYCLOPS. 

By  Jove  you  are  !    I  bore  you  off  from  Dardanus. 

ULYSSES  and  the  CHORUS. 

ULYSSES. 

Come,  boys  of  Bacchus,  children  of  high  race, 

This  man  within  i.«  folded  up  in  sleep. 

And  soon  will  vomit  Hesh  from  his  fell  maw  ; 

The  brand  under  the  shed  thrusts  out  its  smoke, 

No  preparation  needs,  but  to  burn  out 

The  monster's  eye  :  but  bear  yourselves  like  men. 

CHORUS. 

We  will  have  courage  like  the  adamant  rock. 
All  things  are  ready  for  you  here  :  go  in. 
Before  our  father  shall  perceive  the  noise. 

ULYSSES. 

Vulcan,  .^tnean  king  !  burn  out  w^ith  fire 
The  shining  eye  of  this  thy  neighboring  monster ! 
And  thou,  O  Sleep,  nursling  of  gloomy  Night, 
Descend  unmixed  on  this  God-hated  beast, 
And  suffer  not  Ulysses  and  his  comrades. 
Returning  from  their  famous  Trojan  toils, 


712  THE    CYCLOPS. 

To  perish  by  this  man,  who  cares  not  either 
For  God  or  mortal :  or  I  needs  must  think 
That  Chance  is  a  supreme  divinity, 
And  things  divine  are  subject  to  her  power. 


Soon  a  crab  the  throat  will  seize 
Of  him  who  feeds  upon  his  guest, 

Fire  will  burn  his  lamp -like  eyes 
In  revenge  of  such  a  feast ! 

A  great  oak  stump  now  is  lying 

In  the  ashes  yet  undying. 

Come,  Maron,  come ! 
Raging  let  him  fix  the  doom, 
Let  him  tear  the  eyelid  up 
Of  the  Cyclops  —  that  his  cup 

May  be  evil  ! 
Oh,  I  long  to  dance  and  revel  • 

With  sweet  Broraian,  long  desired, 
In  loved  ivy-wreaths  attired  ; 

Leaving  this  abandoned  home  — 

Will  the  moment  ever  come? 

ULYSSES. 

Be  silent,  ye  wild  things  !     Nay,  hold  your  peace, 
And  keep  your  lips  quite  close  ;  dare  not  to  breathe, 
Or  spit,  or  e'en  wink,  lest  ye  wake  the  monster, 
Until  his  eye  be  tortured  out  with  fire. 

CHORUS. 

Nay,  we  are  silent,  and  we  chaw  the  air. 

ULYSSES. 

Come,  now,  and  lend  a  hand  to  the  great  stake 
Within  —  it  is  delightfully  red  hot. 

CHORUS. 

You  then  command  who  first  should  seize  the  stake 
To  burn  the  Cyclops*  eye,  that  all  may  share 
In  the  great  enterprise. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

We  are  too  few  ; 
We  can  not  at  this  distance  from  the  door 
Thrust  fire  into  his  eye. 

SEMICHORUS    11. 

And  we  just  now 
Have  become  lame  :  can  not  move  hand  nor  foot. 


The  same  thing  has  occurred  to  us  :  our  ancles 
Are  sprained  with  standing  here,  I  know  not  how. 

ULYSSES. 

What,  sprained  with  standing  still  ? 


THE    CYCLOPS.  ,  713 

CHORUS. 

And  there  is  dust 
Or  ashes  in  our  eyes,  I  know  not  whence. 

ULYSSES. 

Cowardly  dogs  !  ye  will  not  aid  n>e,  then  ? 

CHORUS. 

With  pitying  my  ow^n  back  and  my  back-bone, 
And  with  not  wishing  all  my  teeth  knocked  out, 
This  cowardice  comes  of  itself — but  stay, 
I  know  a  famous  Orphic  incantation 
To  make  the  brand  stick  of  its  own  accord 
Into  the  scull  of  this  one-eyed  son  of  earth. 

ULYSSES. 

Of  old  I  knew  ye  thus  by  nature  :  now 

I  know  ye  better.     I  will  use  the  aid 

Of  my  own  comrades  —  yet,  though  weak  of  hand, 

Speak  cheerfully,  that  so  ye  may  awaken 

The  courage  of  my  friends  with  your  blithe  words. 

CHORUS. 

This  will  I  do  with  peril  of  my  life. 

And  blind  you  with  my  exhortations,  Cyclops. 

Hasten  and  thrust, 

And  parch  up  to  dust. 

The  eye  of  the  beast 

Who  feeds  on  his  guest. 

Burn  and  blind 

The  ^tnean  hind  ! 

Scoop  and  draw. 

But  beware  lest  he  claw 

Your  limbs  near  his  maw  ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah  me  !  my  eyesight  is  parched  up  to  cinders. 

CHORUS. 

What  a  sweet  psean  !     Sing  me  that  again  ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah  me  !  indeed,  what  woe  has  fallen  upon  me ! 
But,  wretched  nothings,  think  ye  not  to  flee 
Out  of  this  rock  :  I,  standing  at  the  outlet, 
Will  bar  the  way,  and  catch  you  as  you  pass. 

CHORUS. 

What  are  you  roaring  out,  Cyclops  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I  perish ! 

CHORUS. 

For  you  are  wicked. 

CYCLOPS. 

And  besides  miserable. 

CHORUS. 

What,  did  you  fall  into  the  fire  when  drank  ? 


714  THE    CYCLOPS. 

CYCLOPS. 

'Twas  Nobody  destroyed  me. 

CHOKUS. 

Why  then  no  one 
Can  be  to  blame. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  say  'twas  Nobody 
Who  blinded  me. 

CHORUS, 

Why,  then,  yoa  are  not  blind  ! 

CYCLOPS. 

I  wish  you  were  as  blind  as  I  am. 

CHORUS. 

Nay, 
It  can  not  be  that  no  one  made  you  blind. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  jeer  me :  where,  I  ask,  is  Nobody  ? 

CHORUS. 

Nowhere,  O  Cyclops  I  *  *         * 

CYCLOPS. 

It  was  that  stranger  ruined  me  !     The  wretch 
First  gave  me  wine,  and  then  burnt  out  my  eye, 
For  wine  is  strong  and  hard  to  struggle  with. 
Have  they  escaped,  or  are  they  yet  within  ? 

CHORUS. 

They  stand  under  the  darkness  of  the  rock, 
And  cling  to  it. 

CYCLOPS. 

At  my  right  hand  or  left  ? 

CHORUS. 

Close  on  your  right. 

CYCLOPS. 

Where  ? 

CHORUS. 

Near  the  rock  itself. 
You  have  them. 

CYCLOPS. 

Oh,  misfortune  on  misfortune  ! 
I've  cracked  my  scull ! 

CHORUS. 

Now  they  escape  you  there. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not  there,  although  you  say  so. 

CHORUS. 

Not  on  that  side. 


THE    CYCLOPS.  715 

CYCLOPS. 

Where  then  ? 

''  CHORUS. 

They  creep  about  you  on  your  left. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah  !  I  am  mocked !     They  jeer  me  in  my  ills. 

CHORUS. 

Not  there  !  he  is  a  little  there  beyond  you  ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Detested  wretch  !  where  are  you  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Far  from  you 
I  keep  with  care  this  body  of  Ulysses. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  do  you  say  ?     You  proffer  a  new  name. 

ULYSSES. 

My  father  named  me  so  ;  and  I  have  taken 

A  full  revenge  for  your  unnatural  feast ; 

I  should  have  done  ill  to  have  burned  down  Troy, 

And  not  revenged  the  murder  of  my  comrades. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ai !  ai !  the  ancient  oracle  is  accomplished  : 
It  said  that  I  shoidd  have  my  eyesight  blinded 
By  you  coming  from  Troy  —  yet  it  foretold 
That  you  should  pay  the  penally  for  this 
By  wandering  long  over  the  homeless  sea. 

ULYSSES. 

I  bid  thee  weep  —  consider  what  I  say: 
I  go  toward  the  shore  to  drive  my  ship 
To  mine  own  land,  o'er  the  Sicilian  wave. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not  so,  if  whelming  you  with  this  huge  stone 
I  can  crush  you  and  all  your  men  together; 
I  will  descend  upon  the  shore,  though  blind, 
Groping  my  way  adown  the  steep  ravine  ! 

CHORUS. 

And  we,  the  shipmates  of  Ulysses  now. 
Will  serve  our  Bacchus  all  our  happy  lives. 


END    OF   THE   CYCLOPS. 


716  FROM    THE    GREEK. 

SONNET, 

FROM   THE    ITALIAN   OF   DANTE. 


DANTE   ALIGHIERI   TO    GUIDO    CAVALCANTI, 

GuiDO,  I  would  that  Lappo,  thou,  and  I, 

Led  by  some  strong-  enchantment,  might  ascend 

A  magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should  fly 

With  w^inds  at  will  where'er  our  thoughts  might  wend, 

So  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance. 

Should  mar  our  joyous  voyage  ;  but  it  might  be, 

That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 

Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community  ; 

And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  then  would  place 

Vanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love. 

Companions  of  our  wandering,  and  would  grace 

With  passionate  talk,  wherever  we  might  rove, 

Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and  free 

As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be. 


SPIRIT  OF  PLATO. 

FROM   THE   GREEK. 

Eagle  !  why  soarest  thou  above  that  tomb  ? 
To  what  sublime  and  starry-paven  home 

Floatest  thou  ? 
I  am  the  image  of  swift  Plato's  spirit, 
Ascending  heaven  —  Athens  does  inherit 

His  corpse  below. 


FROM  THE  GREEK. 

A  MAN  who  was  about  to  hang  himself, 
Finding  a  purse,  then  threw  away  his  rope: 
The  owner  coming  to  reclaim  his  pelf. 
The  halter  found  and  used  it.     So  is  hope 
Changed  for  despair  —  one  laid  upon  the  shelf, 
We  take  the  other.     Under  heaven's  high  cope 
Fortune  is  God :  all  you  endure  and  do 
Depends  on  circumstance  as  much  as  you. 


SCENES    FROM    CALDERON.  717 


TO  STELLA. 

FROM   PLATO. 


Thou  wert  the  morning  star  among  the  living, 

Ere  thy  fair  light  had  fled  : 
Now,  having  died,  thou  art  as  Hesperus,  giving 

New  splendor  to  the  dead. 


FROM  PLATO. 

Kissing  Helena,  together 
With  my  kiss,  my  soul  heside  it 
Came  to  my  lips,  and  there  I  kept  it  — 
For  the  poor  thing  had  wandered  thither, 
To  follow  where  the  kiss  should  guide  it : 
O,  cruel  I,  to  intercept  it ! 


SCENES 

FROM 

THE  'MAGICO  PRODIGIOSO'  OF  CALDERON. 


CYPRIAN,  at  a  Student;  CLARIN  and  MOSCON,  as  poor  Scholart,  with  book*. 
CYPRIAN. 

In  the  sweet  solitude  of  this  calm  place, 

This  intricate  wild  wilderness  of  trees 

And  flowers  and  undergrowth  of  odorous  plants, 

Leave  me  ;  the  books  you  brought  out  of  the  house 

To  me  are  ever  best  society. 

And  while  with  glorious  festival  and  song 

Antioch  now  celebrates  the  consecration 

Of  a  proud  temple  to  great  Jupiter, 

And  bears  his  image  in  loud  jubilee 

To  its  new  shrine,  I  would  consume  what  still 

Lives  of  the  dying  day,  in  studious  thought, 

Far  from  the  throng  and  turmoil.     You,  my  friends, 

Go  and  enjoy  the  festival ;  it  will 

Be  worth  the  labor,  and  return  for  me 

When  the  sun  seeks  its  grave  among  the  billows, 

Which  among  dim  gray  clouds  on  the  horizon 

Dance  like  white  plumes  upon  a  hearse  :  and  here 

I  shall  expect  you. 


718         SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 


I  can  not  bring  my  mind, 
Great  as  my  haste  to  see  the  festival 
Certainly  is,  to  leave  you,  sir.  without 
Just  saying  some  three  or  four  hundred  words. 
How  is  it  possible  that  on  a  day 
Of  such  festivity,  you  can  bring  your  mind 
To  come  forih  to  a  solitary  country 
With  three  or  four  old  books,  and  turn  your  back 
On  all  this  mirth  ? 

CLARIN. 

My  master's  in  the  right ; 
There  is  not  anything  more  tiresome 
Than  a  proo^ssion-day,  with  troops  of  men, 
And  dances,  and  all  that. 

MOSCON. 

From  first  to  last, 
Clarin,  you  are  a  temporizing  flatterer  ; 
You  praise  not  what  you  feel,  but  what  he  does : 
Toadeater ! 

CLARIN. 

You  lie  —  under  a  mistake  — 
Tor  this  is  the  most  civil  sort  of  lie 
That  can  be  given  to  a  man's  face.     I  now 
Say  what  I  think. 

CYPRIAN. 

Enough,  you  foolish  fellows. 
Puffed  up  with  your  own  doting  ignorance. 
You  always  take  the  two  sides  of  one  question. 
Now  go,  and  as  I  said,  return  for  me 
W  hen  night  falls,  vailing  in  its  shadows  wide 
This  glorious  fabric  of  the  universe. 

MOSCON. 

How  happens  it,  although  you  can  maintain 
The  folly  of  enjoying  festivals, 
That  yet  you  go  there  ? 

CLARIN. 

Nay,  the  consequence 
Is  clear :  who  ever  did  what  he  advises 
Others  to  do  ?  — 

MOSCON. 

Would  that  my  feet  were  wings, 
So  would  I  fly  to  Livia.  [Exit. 

CLARIN. 

To  speak  truth, 
Livia  is  she  who  has  surprised  my  heart ; 
But  he  is  more  than  half  way  there.  —  Soho  ! 
Livia,  I  come  :  good  sport,  Livia,  soho  !  [Exit. 

CYPRIAN. 

Now,  since  I  am  alone,  let  me  examine 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.  719 

The  question  which  has  long  disturbed  my  mind 

With  doubt,  since  iirst  I  read  in  Plinius 

The  words  of  mystic  import  and  deep  sense 

In  which  he  defines  God.     My  intellect 

Can  find  no  God  with  whom  these  marks  and  signs 

Fitly  agree.     It  is  a  hidden  truth 

Which  I  must  fathom.  [Reads. 

Enter  the  DEVIL,  as  a  Jine  Gentleman. 
DEMON. 

Search  even  as  thou  wilt, 
But  thou  shalt  never  find  what  I  can  hide. 

CYPRIAN. 

What  noise  is  that  among  the  boughs  ?    Who  moves  ? 
What  art  thou  1  — 

DEMON. 

'Tis  a  foreign  gentleman. 
Even  from  this  morning  I  have  lost  my  way 
In  this  wild  place,  and  my  poor  horse,  at  last 
duite  overcome,  has  stretched  himself  upon 
The  enameled  tapestry  of  this  mossy  mountain, 
And  feeds  and  rests  at  the  same  time.     1  was 
Upon  my  way  to  Antioch  upon  business 
Of  some  importance,  but  wrapped  up  in  cares 
(Who  is  exempt  from  this  inheritance  ?) 
I  parted  from  my  company,  and  lost 
My  way,  and  lost  my  servants  and  my  comrades. 

CYPRIAN. 

'Tis  singular,  that,  even  within  the  sight 

Of  the  high  towers  of  Antioch,  you  could  lose 

Your  way.     Of  all  the  avenues  and  green  paths 

Of  this  wild  wood,  there  is  not  one  but  leads, 

As  to  its  centre,  to  the  walls  of  Antioch  : 

Take  which  you  will  you  can  not  miss  your  road. 

DEMON. 

And  such  is  ignorance  !     Even  in  the  sight 
Of  knowledge  it  can  draw  no  profit  from  it. 
But,  as  it  is  still  early,  and  as  I 
Have  no  acquaintances  in  Antioch, 
Being  a  stranger  there,  I  will  even  wait 
The  few  surviving  hours  of  the  day, 
Until  the  night  shall  conquer  it.     I  see. 
Both  by  your  dress  and  by  the  books  in  which 
You  find  delight  and  company,  that  you 
Are  a  great  student :  for  my  part,  I  feel 
Much  sympathy  with  such  pursuits. 

CYPRIAN. 

Have  you 
Studied  much  ?  — 

DEMON. 

No :  and  yet  I  know  enough 
Not  to  be  wholly  ignorant. 


720  SCENES    FROM    CALDERON. 

CYPRIAN. 

Pray,  sir, 
What  science  may  you  know  ? 

DEMON. 

Many. 

CYPRIAN. 

Alas! 
Much  pains  must  we  expend  on  one  alone, 
And  even  then  attain  it  not :  but  you 
Have  the  presumption  to  assert  that  you 
Know  many  without  study. 

DEMON. 

And  with  truth. 
For,  in  the  country  whence  I  come,  sciences 
Require  no  learning  —  they  are  known. 

CYPRIAN. 

Ob,  would 
I  were  of  that  bright  country  !  for  in  this 
The  more  we  study,  we  the  more  discover 
Our  ignorance. 

DEMON. 

It  is  so  true  that  I 
Had  so  much  arrogance  as  to  oppose 
The  chair  of  the  most  high  Professorship, 
And  obtained  many  votes  :  and  though  I  lost. 
The  attempt  was  still  more  gloi'ious  than  the  failure 
Could  be  dishonorable  :  if  you  believe  not, 
Let  us  refer  it  to  dispute  respecting 
That  which  you  know  best,  and  although  I 
Know  not  the  opinion  you  maintain,  and  though 
It  be  the  true  one,  I  will  take  the  contrary. 

CYPRIAN. 

The  offer  gives  me  pleasure.     I  am  now 
Debating  with  myself  upon  a  passage 
Of  Plinius,  and  my  mind  is  racked  with  doubt 
To  understand  and  know  who  is  the  God 
Of  whom  he  speaks. 

DEMON. 

It  is  a  passage,  if 
I  recollect  it  right,  couched  in  these  words : 
"  God  is  one  supreme  goodness,  one  pure  essence, 
One  substance  and  one  sense,  all  sight,  all  hands." 

CYPRIAN. 

'Tis  true. 

DEMON. 

What  difficulty  find  you  here  ? 

CYPRIAN. 

I  do  not  recognize  among  the  gods 
The  God  defined  by  Plinius  :  if  he  must 
Be  supreme  goodness,  even  Jupiter 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.  721 

Is  not  supremely  good  ;  because  we  see 

His  deeds  are  evil,  and  his  attributes 

Tainted  with  mortal  weakness.     In  what  manner 

Can  supreme  goodness  be  consistent  with 

The  passions  of  humanity  ? 

DEMON. 

The  wisdom 
Of  the  old  world  masked  with  the  names  of  gods 
The  attributes  of  nature  and  of  man ; 
A  sort  of  popular  philosophy. 

CYPRIAN. 

This  reply  will  not  satisfy  me,  for 

Such  awe  is  due  to  the  high  name  of  God, 

That  ill  should  never  be  imputed.     Then, 

Examining  the  question  with  more  care. 

It  follows  that  the  gods  should  always  will 

That  which  is  best,  were  they  supremely  good. 

How  then  does  one  will  one  thing  —  one  another  ? 

And  you  may  not  say  that  I  alledge 

Poetical  or  philosophical  learning : 

Consider  the  ambiguous  responses 

Of  their  oracular  statues  ;  from  two  shrines 

Two  armies  shall  obtain  the  assurance  of 

One  victory.     Is  it  not  indisputable 

That  two  contending  wills  can  never  lead 

To  the  same  end  ?     And,  being  opposite, 

If  one  be  good,  is  not  the  other  evil  ? 

Evil  in  God  is  inconceivable  ; 

But  supreme  goodness  fails  among  the  gods 

Without  their  union. 

DEMON. 

I  deny  your  major. 
These  responses  are  means  toward  some  end 
Unfathomed  by  our  intellectual  beam. 
They  are  the  work  of  providence,  and  more 
The  battle's  loss  may  profit  those  who  lose, 
Than  victory  advantage  those  who  win. 

CYPRIAN. 

That  I  admit,  and  yet  that  God  should  not 
(Falsehood  is  incompatible  with  deity) 
Assure  the  victory,  it  would  be  enough 
To  have  permitted  the  defeat ;  if  God 
Be  all  sight,  God,  who  beheld  the  truth, 
Would  not  have  given  assurance  of  an  end 
Never  to  be  accomplished  ;  thus,  although 
The  Deity  may  according  to  his  attributes 
Be  well  distinguished  into  persons,  yet, 
Even  in  the  minutest  circumstauce, 
His  essence  must  be  one. 

DEMON. 

To  attain  the  eud> 
46 


722        SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 

The  affections  of  the  actors  in  the  scene 
Must  have  been  thus  influenced  by  his  voice. 

cypiiiAN. 
But  for  a  purpose  thus  subordinate 
He  might  have  employed  genii,  good  or  evil  — 
A  sort  of  spirits  called  so  by  the  learned, 
Who  roam  about  inspirini?  good  or  evil, 
And  from  whose  influence  and  existence  w^e 
May  well  infer  our  immortality  : 
Thus  God  might  easily^  without  descending 
To  a  gross  falsehood  in  his  proper  person, 
Have  moved  the  affections  by  this  mediation 
To  the  just  point. 

DEMON. 

These  trifling  contradictions 
Do  not  suffice  to  impugn  the  unity 
Of  the  high  gods  ;  in  things  of  great  importance 
They  still  appear  unanimous;  con.sider 
That  glorious  fabric,  man  —  his  workmanship 
Is  stamped  with  one  conception. 

CYPRIAN. 

Who  made  man 
Must  have,  methinks.  the  advantage  of  the  others. 
nf  they  are  equal,  might  they  not  have  ri.sen 
In  opposition  to  the  work,  and  being 
All  hands,  according  to  our  author  here. 
Have  still  destroyed  even  as  the  other  made  ? 
If  equal  in  their  power,  and  only  unequal 
In  opportunity,  which  of  the  two 
Will  remain  conquei'or  ? 

DEMON. 

On  impossible 
And  false  hypotheses,  there  can  be  built 
No  argument.     Say,  what  do  you  infer 
From  this  ? 

CYPRIAN. 

That  there  must  be  a  mighty  God 
Of  supreme  goodness  and  of  highest  grace, 
All  sight,  all  hands,  all  truth,  infallible, 
Without  an  equal  and  without  a  rival ; 
The  cause  of  all  things  and  the  efilect  of  nothing, 
One  power,  one  will,  one  substance  and  one  essence. 
And  in  whatever  persons,  one  or  two, 
His  attributes  may  be  distinguished,  one 
Sovereign  power,  one  solitary  essence. 
One  cause  of  all  cause.  [They  rise. 

DEMON. 

How  can  I  impugn 
So  clear  a  consequence  ? 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.  723 

CYPRIAN. 

Do  you  regret 
My  victory  ? 

DEMON. 

Who  but  regrets  a  check 
In  rivalry  of  wit  ?     I  could  reply 
And  urge  new  difficulties,  but  will  now 
Depart,  for  I  hear  steps  of  men  approaching, 
And  it  is  time  that  I  should  now  pursue 
My  journey  to  the  city. 

CYPRIAN. 

Go  in  peace ! 

DEMON. 

Remain  in  peace  !     Since  thus  it  profits  him 

To  study,  I  will  wrap  his  .senses  up 

In  sweet  oblivion  of  all  thought  but  of 

A  piece  of  excellent  beauty ;  and  as  I 

Have  power  given  me  to  wage  enmity 

Against  Justina's  soul,  I  will  extract 

From  one  effect  two  vengeances.  [Exit. 

CYPRIAN. 

I  never 
Met  a  more  learned  person.  Let  me  now 
Revolve  this  doubt  again  with  careful  mind.         [He  reads. 

Enter  LELIO  and  FLORO. 


Here  stop.     These  toppling  rocks  and  tangled  boughs, 
Impenetrable  by  the  noonday  beam, 
Shall  be  sole  witnesses  of  what  we  — 

FLORO. 

Draw^! 
If  there  were  words,  here  is  the  place  for  deeds. 

LELIO. 

Thou  needest  not  instruct  me  :  well  I  know 

That  in  the  field  the  silent  tongue  of  steel 

Speaks  thus !  [  Theyjight. 

CYPRIAN. 

Ha  !  what  is  this  ?  Lelio.  Floro, 
Be  it  enough  that  Cyprian  stands  between  you, 
Although  unarmed. 

LELIO. 

Whence  comest  thou,  to  stand 
Between  me  and  my  vengeance? 

FLORO. 

From  what  rocks 
And  desert  cells  7 


724  SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 

Enter  MOSCON  and  CLARIN. 
MOSCON. 

Run,  run  !  for  where  we  left  my  master. 
We  bear  the  clash  of  swords. 

CLARIN. 

I  never 
Run  to  approach  things  of  this  sort,  but  only 
To  avoid  them.     Sir  !  Cyprian  !  sir  ! 

CYPRIAN. 

Be  silent,  fellows  !     What !  two  friends  who  are 
In  blood  and  fame  the  eyes  and  hope  of  Antioch  ; 
One  of  the  noble  men  of  the  Colatti, 
The  other  son  of  the  governor,  adventure 
And  cast  away,  on  some  slight  cause  no  doubt, 
Two  lives,  the  honor  of  their  country  ! 

LELIO. 

Cyprian, 
Although  my  high  respect  toward  your  person 
Holds  now  my  sword  suspended,  thou  canst  not 
Restore  it  to  the  slumber  of  its  scabbard. 
Thou  knowest  more  of  science  than  the  duel : 
For  when  two  men  of  honor  take  the  field, 
No  counsel  nor  respect  can  make  them  friends. 
But  one  must  die  in  the  pursuit. 

FLORO. 

I  pray 
That  you  depart  hence  with  your  people,  and 
Leave  us  to  finish  what  we  have  begun 
Without  advantage. 

CYPRIAN. 

Thouffh  yoo  may  imagine 
That  r  know  little  of  the  laws  of  duel 
Which  vanity  and  valor  instituted. 
You  are  in  error.     By  my  birth  I  am 
Held  no  less  than  yourselves  to  know  the  limits 
Of  honor  and  of  infamy,  nor  lias  study 
Quenched  the  free  spirit  which  first  ordered  them  ; 
And  thus  to  me,  as  one  well  experienced 
In  the  false  quicksands  of  the  sea  of  honor, 
You  may  refer  the  merits  of  the  case  ; 
And  if  i  should  perceive  in  your  relation 
That  either  has  the  right  to  satisfaction 
Fiom  the  other,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
To  leave  you. 

LELIO. 

Under  this  condition  then 
I  will  relate  the  cause,  and  you  will  cede 
And  must  confess  th'  impos.sibility 
Of  compromise  ;  for  the  same  lady  is 
Beloved  by  Ploro  and  myself. 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.  725 


It  seems 
Much  to  me  that  the  light  of  day  should  look 
Upon  that  idol  of  my  heart  —  but  he  — 
Leave  us  to  fight,  according  to  thy  word. 

CYPRIAN. 

Permit  one  question  further  :  is  the  lady 
Impossible  to  hope  or  not  ? 

LELTO. 

She  is 
So  excellent,  that  if  the  light  of  day 
Should  excite  Floro's  jealousy,  it  were 
Without  just  cause,  for  even  the  light  of  day 
Trembles  to  gaze  on  her, 

CYPRIAN. 

Would  you  for  your 
Part  marry  her? 

FLORO. 

Such  is  my  confidence. 

CYPRIAN. 

And  you  ? 

LELIO. 

O,  would  that  T  could  lift  my  hope 
So  high  !  for,  though  she  is  extremely  poor, 
Her  virtue  is  her  dowry. 

CYPRIAN. 

And  if  you  both 

Would  marry  her,  is  it  not  weak  and  vain, 

Culpable  and  unworthy,  tiius  beforehand 

To  slur  her  lienor?     What  would  the  world  say 

If  one  siiould  slay  the  other,  and  if  she 

Should  afterward  espouse  the  murderer  ? 

[Tke  rivals  agree  to  refer  their  quarrel  to  Cypeian, 
who  in  consetjuence  visits  .Iusiina,  and  becomes 
enamored  of  her  :  she  disdains  him,  and  he  retires 
to  a  solitary  seashore.^ 


SCENE  XL 

CYPRIAN. 

O  MEMORY  !  permit  it  not 

That  the  tyrant  of  my  thought 

Be  another  soul  that  still 

Holds  dominion  o'er  the  will  ; 

That  would  refuse,  but  can  no  more, 

To  bend,  to  tremble  and  adore. 

Vain  idolatry !  —  I  saw, 

And  gazing,  became  blind  with  error ; 


726         SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 

Weak  ambition,  which  the  awe 

Of  her  presence  bound  to  terror ! 

So  beautiful  she  was  —  and  I, 

Between  my  love  and  jealousy, 

Am  so  convulsed  with  hope  and  fear, 

Unworthy  as  it  may  appear  ; 

So  bitter  is  the  life  I  live. 

That,  hear  me,  Hell  !  I  now  would  give 

To  thy  most  detested  spirit 

My  soul,  for  ever  to  inherit. 

To  suffer  punishment  and  pine, 

So  this  woman  may  be  mine. 

Hear'st  thou,  Hell !  dost  thou  reject  it  ? 

My  soul  is  offered  ! 

DEMON  (unseen). 

1  accept  it ! 
[Tempest,  with  thunder  and  lightning. 
CYPRIAN. 

What  is  this  ?  ye  heavens,  for  ever  pure, 
At  once  intensely  radiant  and  obscure  ! 

Athwart  the  ethereal  halls 
The  lightning's  arrow  and  the  thunder-balls 

The  day  affright, 

As  from  the  horizon  round, 

Burst  with  earthquake-sound, 
In  mighty  torrents  the  electric  fountains  : 
Clouds  quench  the  sun.  and  thunder-smoke 
Strangles  the  air,  and  fire  eclipses  heaven. 
Philosophy,  thou  canst  not  even 
Compel  their  causes  underneath  thy  yoke, 
From  3'onder  clouds  even  to  the  waves  below 
The  fragments  of  a  single  ruin  choke 

Imagination's  flight ; 
For.  on  flakes  of  surge,  like  feathers  light, 
The  ashes  of  the  desolation  cast 

Upon  the  gloomy  blast. 
Tell  of  the  footsteps  of  the  storm. 
And  nearer  see  the  melancholy  form 
Of  a  great  ship,  the  outcast  of  the  sea, 

Drives  miserably  ! 
And  it  must  fly  the  pity  of  the  port. 
Or  perish,  and  i's  last  and  sole  resort 
Is  its  own  raging  enemy. 

The  terror  of  the  thrilling  cry 

Was  a  fatal  prophecy 

Of  coming  Death,  who  hovers  now 

Upon  that  shattered  prow. 

That  they  who  die  not  may  be  dying  still. 

And  not  alone  the  insane  elements 

Are  populous  with  wild  portents. 

But  that  sad  ship  is  as  a  miracle 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.  727 

Of  sudden  ruin,  for  it  drives  so  fast 

It  seems  as  if  it  had  arrayed  its  form 

With  the  headlong  storm. 

It  strikes  —  I  almost  feel  the  shock  — 

It  stumbles  on  a  jagged  rock  — 

Sparkles  of  blood  on  the  white  foam  are  cast. 

A  Tempest.  —  All  exclaim  within, 
We  are  all  lost ! 

DEMON  (tcithin). 
Now  from  this  plank  will  I 
Pass  to  the  land,  and  thus  fulfill  my  scheme. 

CYPRIAN. 

As  in  contempt  of  the  elemental  rage 

A  man  comes  forth  in  safety,  while  the  ship's 

Great  form  is  in  a  watery  eclipse 

Obliterated  from  the  ocean's  page, 

And  round  its  wreck  the  huge  sea-monsters  sit, 

A  horrid  conclave,  and  the  whistling  wave 

Are  heaped  over  its  carcass,  like  a  grave. 

The  DKMON  enters,  as  escaped  Jrom  the  tea. 

DKMON  f  aside  J. 
It  was  essential  to  my  purposes 
To  wake  a  tumult  on  the  sapphii-e  ocean, 
That  in  this  unknown  form  I  might  at  length 
Wipe  oui  the  blot  of  the  discomfiture 
Sustained  upon  the  mountain,  and  assail 
With  a  new  war  the  soul  of  Cyprian, 
Forging  the  instruments  of  his  destruction 
Even  from  his  love  and  from  his  wisdom.  —  O 
Beloved  Earth,  dear  mother,  in  thy  bosom 
I  seek  a  refuge  from  the  monster  who 
Precipitates  itself  upon  me. 

CYPRIAN. 

Friend, 
Collect  thy.self ;  and  be  the  memory 
Of  thy  late  suffering  and  thy  greatest  sorrow 
But  as  a  shadow  of  the  past  —  for  nothing 
Beneath  the  circle  of  the  moon  but  flows 
And  changes,  and  can  never  know  repose. 

DEMON. 

And  who  art  thou,  before  whose  feet  my  fate 
Has  pro.strated  me  ? 

CYPRIAN. 

One  who  moved  with  pity, 
Would  soothe  its  stings. 

DEMON. 

Oh  !  that  can  never  be  I 
No  solace  can  my  lasting  sorrows  find. 


728         SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 

CYPRIAN. 
Wherefore  ? 

DEMON. 

Because  my  happiness  is  lost. 
Yet  I  lament  what  has  long  ceased  to  be 
The  object  of  desire  or  memory, 
And  my  life  is  not  life. 

CYPRIAN. 

Now,  since  the  fury 
Of  this  earthquaking  hurricane  is  still, 
And  the  crystalline  heaven  has  reassumed 
Its  windless  calm  so  quickly,  that  it  seems 
As  if  its  heavy  wrath  had  been  awakened 
Only  to  overwhelm  that  vessel  —  speak, 
Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou  ? 

DEMON. 

Far  more 
My  coming  hither  cost  than  thou  hast  seen 
Or  I  can  tell.     Among  my  misadventures 
This  shipwreck  is  the  least.     Wilt  thou  hear  ? 


CYPRIAN. 
DEMON. 

Since  thou  desirest.  I  will  then  unvail 

Myself  to  thee  —  for  in  myself  I  am 

A  world  of  happiness  and  misery  ; 

This  I  hare  lost,  and  that  I  must  lament 

For  ever.     In  my  attributes  I  stood 

So  high  and  so  heroically  great. 

In  lineage  so  supreme,  and  with  a  genius 

Which  penetrated  with  a  glance  the  world 

Beneath  my  feet,  that  won  by  my  high  merit 

A  king  —  whom  I  may  call  the  King  of  kings, 

Because  all  others  tremble  in  their  pride 

Before  the  terrors  of  his  countenance. 

In  his  high  palace  roofed  with  brightest  gems 

Of  living  light  —  call  them  the  stars  of  Heaven — 

Named  me  his  counsellor.     But  the  high  praise 

Stung  me  with  pride  and  envy,  and  I  rose 

In  mighty  competition,  to  ascend 

His  seat,  and  place  my  foot  triumphantly 

Upon  his  subject  thrones.     Chastised,  I  know 

The  depth  to  which  ambition  falls  ;  too  mad 

Was  the  attempt,  and  yet  more  mad  were  now 

Repentance  of  the  irrevocable  deed  :  — 

Therefore  I  chose  this  ruiri  with  the  glory 

O  f  not  to  be  subdued,  before  the  shame 

Of  reconciling  me  with  him  who  reigns 

By  coward  cession.     Nor  was  I  alone, 

Nor  am  I  now,  nor  shall  I  be  alone  ; 

And  there  was  hope,  and  there  may  still  be  hope, 

For  many  suffrages  among  hid  vas.sals 


Speak. 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.  729 

Hailed  me  their  lord  and  king,  and  many  still 

Are  mine,  and  many  more  pei-chance  shall  be. 

Thus  vanquished,  though  in  fact  victorious, 

I  lefthi.s  seat  of  empire,  from  mine  eye 

Shooting  forth  poisonous  lightning,  while  my  words 

With  inauspicious  thunderings  shook  heaven, 

Proclaiming  vengeance,  public  as  my  wrong, 

And  imprecating  on  his  prostrate  slaves 

Rapine,  and  death,  and  outrage.     Then  I  sailed 

Over  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  world, 

A  pirate  ambushed  in  its  pathless  sands, 

A  lynx  crouched  watchfully  among  its  caves 

And  craggy  shores  ;  and  I  have  wandered  over 

The  expan.se  of  the.se  wide  wildernes.ses 

In  this  great  ship,  who.se  bulk  is  now^  dissolved 

In  the  light  breathings  of  the  invisible  wind. 

And  which  the  sea  has  made  a  dustless  ruin, 

Seeking  ever  a  mountain,  through  w^hose  forests 

I  seek  a  man,  whom  I  must  now  compel 

To  keep  his  word  with  me.     I  came  arrayed 

In  tempe.st  and,  although  my  power  could  well 

Bridle  the  forest  winds  in  their  career, 

For  other  causes  I  forbore  to  sooth 

Their  fury  to  Favonian  gentleness; 

I  could  and  would  not :  (thus  I  wake  in  him  [Aside. 

A  love  of  magic  art.)     Let  not  this  tempest, 

Nor  the  succeeding  calm  excite  thy  wonder ; 

For  by  my  art  the  sun  would  turn  as  pale 

As  his  weak  sister  with  unwonted  fear. 

And  in  my  wisdom  are  the  orbs  of  heaven 

Written  as  in  a  record.     I  have  pierced 

The  flaming  circles  of  their  w^ondrous  spheres. 

And  know  them  as  thou  knowcst  every  corner 

Of  this  dim  spot.     Let  it  not  seem  to  thee 

That  [  boast  vainly  ;  wouldsl  thou  that  I  work 

A  charm  over  this  waste  and  savage  wood, 

Thi.s  Babylon  of  crags  and  aged  trees, 

Filling  its  leafy  coverts  with  a  horror 

Thrilling  and  strange  ?     I  am  the  friendless  guest 

Of  these  wild  oaks  and  pines  —  and  as  from  thee 

I  have  received  the  hospitality 

Of  this  rude  place,  I  offer  thee  the  fruit 

Of  years  of  toil  in  recompense  ;  whate'er 

Thy  wildest  dream  presented  to  thy  thought 

As  object  of  desire,  that  shall  be  thine. 

And  thenceforth  shall  so  firm  an  amity 
'Twixt  thou  and  me  be,  that  neither  fortune, 
The  monstrous  phantom  which  pursues  success, 
That  careful  miser,  that  free  prodigal, 
Who  ever  alternates  with  changeful  hand 
Evil  and  good,  reproach  and  fame  ;  nor  Time, 
That  loadstar  of  the  ages,  to  who.se  beam 


730  SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 

The  \vinged  years  speed  o'er  the  intervals 
Of  their  unequal  revolutions;  nor 
Heaven  itself,  whose  beautiful  bright  stars 
Rule  and  adorn  the  world,  can  ever  make 
The  least  division  between  thee  and  me, 
Since  now  1  find  a  refuge  in  thy  favor. 


SCENE  III. 
The  Demon  tempts  Jdstina,  who  is  a  Christian. 

DEMON. 

Abyss  of  Hell !  I  call  on  thee, 

Thou  wild  misrule  of  thine  own  anarchy  ! 

From  thy  prison  house  set  free 

The  spirits  of  voluptuous  death, 

That  with  their  mighty  breath 

They  may  destroy  a  world  of  virgin  thoughts ; 

Let  her  chaste  mind  with  fancies  thick  as  motes 

Be  peopled  from  thy  shadowy  deep, 

Till  her  guiltless  phantasy 

Full  to  overflowing  be  ! 

And.  with  sweetest  harmony, 

Let  birds,  and  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  all  things  move 

To  love,  only  to  love. 

Let  nothing  meet  her  eyes 

But  signs  of  Love's  soft  victories  ; 

Let  nothing  meet  her  ear 

But  sounds  of  Love's  sweet  soitow  ; 

So  that  from  faith  no  succor  may  she  borrow, 

But,  guided  by  my  spirit  blind 

And  in  a  magic  snare  entwined, 

She  may  now  seek  Cyprian. 

Begin,  while  I  in  silence  bind 

My  voice,  when  thy  sweet  song  thou  hast  begun. 

A  VOICE  WITHIN. 

What  is  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  human  life  1 

ALL. 

Love !  love! 
[While  these  words  are  sung,  the  Demon  goes  out  at  one 
door,  and  Justina.  enters  at  another. 

THE   FIRST   VOICE. 

There  is  no  form  in  which  the  fire 
Of  love  its  traces  has  impressed  not. 
Man  lives  far  more  in  love's  desire 
Than  by  life's  breath  soon  possessed  not. 
If  all  that  lives  must  love  or  die, 
All  shapes  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
Witli  one  consent  to  heaven  cry 
That  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  life  is  — 


SCENES    FROM    CALDERON.  731 

ALL. 

Love  !  O  love  ! 

JUSTINA. 

Thou  melancholy  thought  which  art, 
So  fluttering  and  so  sweet,  to  thee 
When  did  I  give  the  liberty 
Thus  to  afflict  my  heart  ? 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  new  power 
Which  doth  my  fevered  being  move, 
Momently  raging  more  and  more  ? 
What  subtle  pain  is  kindled  now 
Which  from  my  heart  doth  overflow 
Into  my  senses  ?  — 

ALL. 

Love  !  O  love  ! 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis  that  enamored  nightingale 
Who  gives  me  the  reply : 
He  ever  tells  the  same  soft  tale 
Of  passion  and  of  constancy 
To  his  mate,  who,  rapt  and  fond, 
Listening  sits,  a  bough  beyond. 

Be  silent,  Nightingale  !  —  No  more 

Make  me  think,  in  hearing  thee 

Thus  tenderly  thy  love  deplore. 

If  a  bird  can  feel  his  so. 

What  a  man  would  feel  for  me. 

And,  voluptuous  wine,  O  thou 

Who  seekest  most  when  least  pursuing, — 

To  the  trunk  thou  interlaces! 

Art  the  verdure  which  embracest 

And  the  weight  which  is  its  ruin,  — 

No  more,  with  green  embraces,  vine, 

Make  me  think  on  what  thou  lovest, — 

For  while  thou  thus  thy  boughs  entwine, 

I  fear  lest  thou  shouldst  teach  me,  sophist, 

How  arms  might  be  entangled  too. 

Light-enchanted  sunflower,  thou 
Who  gazest  ever  true  and  tender 
On  the  sun's  revolving  splendor. 
Follow  not  his  faithless  glance 
With  thy  faded  countenace, 
Nor  teach  my  beating  heart  to  fear, 
If  leaves  can  mourn  without  a  tear, 
How  eyes  must  weep  !  O  Nightingale, 
Cease  from  thy  enamored  tale, — 
Leafy  vine,  unwreath  thy  bower. 
Restless  sunflower,  cease  to  move  — 
Or  tell  me  all,  what  poisonous  power 
Ye  use  against  me  — 


732        SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 
ALL. 

Love  !  love  !  love  ! 

JUSTINA. 

It  can  not  be  !  —  Whom  have  I  ever  loved  ? 
Trophies  of  my  oblivion  and  disdain, 
Floro  and  Lelio  did  I  not  reject? 
And  Cyprian  ?  — 

[She  becomes  troubled  at  th^  name  of  Cyprian. 

Did  I  not  requite  him 
With  such  severity,  that  he  has  fled 
Where  none  has  ever  heard  of  him  again  ?  — 
Alas  !  I  now  begin  to  fear  that  this 
May  be  the  occasion  v^'hence  desire  grows  bold, 
As  if  there  were  no  danger.     From  the  moment 
That  I  pronounced  to  my  own  listening  heart, 
"  Cyprian  is  absent,  O  miserable  me  !" 
I  know  not  what  I  feel !  \More  calmly. 

It  must  be  pity 
To  think  that  such  a  man  whom  all  the  world, 
Admired,  should  be  forgot  by  all  the  world, 
And  I  the  cause.  {She  again  becomes  troubled. 

And  yet  if  it  were  pity, 
Floro  and  Lelio  might  have  equal  share. 
For  they  are  both  imprisoned  for  my  sake.  [Calmly. 

Alas  !  what  reasonings  are  these  ?     It  is 
Enough  I  pity  him,  and  that,  in  vain. 
Without  this  ceremonious  subtlety. 
And  woe  is  me  !  I  know  not  where  to  find  him  now, 
Even  should  I  seek  him  through  this  wide  world ! 

Enter  DEMON. 
DEMON. 

Follow,  and  I  will  lead  thee  where  he  is, 

JUSTINA. 

And  who  art  thou,  who  hast  found  entrance  hither 
Into  my  chamber  through  the  doors  and  locks  ? 
Art  thou  a  monstrous  shadow  which  my  madness 
Has  formed  in  the  idle  air  ? 

DEMON. 

No.     I  am  one 
Called  by  the  thought  which  tyrannizes  thee 
From  his  eternal  dwelling  —  who  this  day 
Is  pledged  to  bear  thee  unto  Cyprian. 

JUSTINA. 

So  shall  thy  promise  fail.     This  agony 
Of  passion  which  afflicts  my  heart  and  srml 
May  sweep  imagination  in  its  storm; 
The  will  is  firm. 

DEMON. 

Already  half  is  done 
In  the  imagination  of  an  act 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.  733 

The  sin  incurred,  the  pleasure  then  remains : 
Let  not  the  will  stop  half  way  on  the  road. 

JUSTINA. 

I  will  not  be  discouraged,  nor  despair, 
Although  I  thought  it,  and  although   tis  true 
That  thought  is  but  a  prelude  to  the  deed  : 
Thought  is  not  in  my  power,  but  action  is  : 
I  will  not  move  my  foot  to  follow  thee  I 

DEMON. 

But  a  far  mightier  wisdom  than  thine  own 
Exerts  itself  within  thee,  with  such  power 
Compelling  thee  to  that  which  it  inclines 
That  it  shall  force  thy  step  ;  how  wilt  thou  then 
Resist,  Justina  ? 

JUSTINA. 

By  my  free  will. 

DEMON. 

I 

Must  force  thy  will. 

JUSTINA. 

It  is  invincible ; 
It  were  not  free  if  thou  hadst  power  upon  it. 

[He  draws,  but.  can  not  move  her. 
DEMON. 

Come,  where  a  pleasure  waits  thee. 

JUSTINA. 

It  were  bought 
Too  dear. 

DEMON. 

'Twill  soothe  thy  heart  to  softest  peace. 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis  dread  captivity. 

DEMON. 

.'Tis  joy,  'tis  glory. 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis  shame,  'tis  torment,  'tis  despair. 

DEMON. 

But  how 
Canst  thou  defend  thyself  from  that  or  me. 
If  my  power  drags  thee  onward  1 

JUSTINA. 

My  defence 
Consists  in  God. 

iHe  vainly  endeavors  to  force  her,  and  at  last  releases  her. 
DEMON. 
Woman,  thou  ha.?t  subdued  me. 
Only  by  not  owning  thyself  subdued. 
But  since  thou  thus  findest  defence  in  God, 


734  SCENES  FROM  CALDERON. 

I  will  assume  a  feigned  form,  and  thus 

Make  thee  a  victim  of  my  baffled  rage. 

For  T  will  mask  a  spirit  in  thy  form 

Who  will  betray  thy  name  to'  infamy, 

And  doubly  shall  I  triumph  in  thy  loss, 

First  by  dishonoring  thee,  and  then  by  turning 

False  pleasure  to  true  ignominy.  [Exit. 

JUSTINA. 

I 

Appeal  to  Heaven  against  thee  ;  so  that  Heaven 

May  scatter  thy  delusions,  and  the  blot 

Upon  my  fame  vanish  in  idle  thought, 

Even  as  flame  dies  in  the  envious  air, 

And  as  the  flow'ret  wanes  at  morning  frost. 

And  thou  shouldst  never But,  alas!  to  whom 

Do  I  still  speak  ?  —  Did  not  a  man  but  now 
Stand  here  before  me  ?  —  No,  I  am  alone. 
And  yet  I  saw  him.     Is  he  gone  so  quickly  ? 
Or  can  the  heated  mind  engender  shapes 
From  its  own  fear  ?     Some  terrible  and  strange 
Peril  is  near.     Lisander  !  father  !  lord  ! 
Li  via !  — 

Enter  LISANDER  and  LIVIA. 
LISANDER. 

O  my  daughter  !  what  ? 

LIVIA. 

What? 

JUSTINA. 

Saw  you 
A  man  go  forth  from  my  apartment  now '!  — 
I  scarce  sustain  myself! 

LISANDER. 

A  man  here  ? 

J0STINA. 

Have  you  not  seen  him  ? 

LIVIA. 

No,  lady. 

JUSTINA. 

I  saw  him. 

LISANDER. 

'Tis  impossible  :  the  doors 
Which  led  to  this  apartment  were  all  locked. 

LIVIA  (aside). 
I  dare  say  it  was  Moscon  whom  she  saw, 
For  he  was  locked  up  in  my  room. 

LISANDER. 

It  must 
Have  been  some  image  of  thy  phantasy. 
Such  melancholy  as  thou  feedest  is 


SCENES  FROM  CALDERON.         735 

Skillful  in  forming  such  in  the  vain  air 
Out  of  the  motes  and  atoms  of  the  day. 

LIVIA. 

My  master's  in  the  right. 

JUSTINA. 

Oh,  would  it  were 
Delusion  ;  hut  I  fear  some  greater  ill. 
I  feel  as  if  out  of  my  bleeding  bosom 
My  heart  was  torn  in  fragments  ;  ay. 
Some  mortal  spell  is  wrought  airainst  my  frame  ; 
So  potent  was  the  charm,  that  had  not  God 
Shielded  my  humble  innocence  from  wrong, 
I  should  have  sought  my  sorrow  and  my  shame 
With  willing  steps. —  Livia,  quick  bring  ray  cloak, 
For  I  must  seek  refuge  from  these  extremes 
Even  in  the  temple  of  the  highest  God 
Which  secretly  the  faithful  worship. 

LIVIA. 

Here. 

JUSTINA  (putting  on  her  cloak). 

In  this,  as  in  a  shroud  of  snow,  may  I 
daench  the  consuming  fire  in  which  I  burn, 
Wasting  away  ! 

LISANDER. 

And  I  will  go  with  thee  ! 

LIVIA. 

When  I  once  see  them  safe  out  of  the  house, 
I  shall  breathe  freely. 

JUSTINA. 

So  do  I  confide 
In  thy  just  favor,  Heaven  ! 

LISANDER. 

Let  us  go. 

JUSTINA. 

Thine  is  the  cause,  great  God  !     Turn,  for  my  sake 
And  for  thine  own,  mercifully  to  me ! 


736  SCENES    FROM    FAUST- 

SCENES 
FROM  THE  'FAUST'  OF  GOETHE. 


PROLOGUE    IN    HEAVEN. 

The  Lord  and  the  Host  of  Heaven. 

Enter  three  Archangels. 
RAPHAEL. 

The  sun  makes  mnsic  as  of  old 

Amid  the  rival  spheres  of  heaven, 
On  its  predestined  circle  rolled 

\Vith  thunder  speed  :  the  angels  even 
Draw  strength  from  gazing  on  its  glance, 

Though  none  its  meaning  fathom  may; 
The  world's  unwithered  countenance 

Is  bright  as  at  creation's  day. 

GABRIEL. 

And  swift  and  swift,  with  rapid  lightness, 

The  adorned  earth  spins  silently, 
Alternating  Elysian  brightness 

With  deep  and  dreadful  night ;  the  sea 
Foams  in  broad  billows  from  the  deep 

Up  to  the  rocks  ;  and  rocks  and  ocean 
Onward,  with  spheres  which  never  sleep, 

Are  hurried  in  eternal  motion. 

MICHAEL. 

And  tempests  in  contention  roar 

From  land  to  sea,  from  sea  to  land  ; 
And,  raging,  weave  a  chain  of  power 

Which  girds  the  earth  as  with  a  band. 
A  flashing  desolation  there 

Flames  before  the  thunder's  way  ; 
But  thy  servants,  Lord,  revere 

The  gentle  changes  of  thy  day. 

CHORUS   OF    THE    THREE. 

The  angels  draw  strength  from  thy  glance, 
Though  no  one  comprehend  thee  may  : 

Thy  world's  unwithered  countenance 
Is  bright  as  on  creation's  day.* 

*  RAPHAEL. 
The  sun  soundg,  according  to  ancient  custom, 
In  the  sonjr  of  emulation  of  his  brother-spheres, 
And  its  fore-written  circle 
Fulfills  with  a  step  of  thunder. 
Its  countenance  gives  the  angels  strength. 
Though  no  one  can  fathom  it. 
The  incredible  high  works 
Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  day. 


SCENES  FROM  FAUST.  737 

Enter  MEPHISTOPHELES. 
MEPHISTOPHELKS. 

As  thou,  O  Lord,  once  more  art  kind  enough 

To  interest  thyself  in  our  aflTairs  — 

And  ask,  '•  How  goes  it  with  you  there  helow  ?" 

And  as  indulgently  at  other  times 

Thou  tookedst  not  my  visits  in  ill  part, 

Thou  seest  me  here  once  more  among  thy  household, 

Though  I  should  scandalize  this  company, 

You  will  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  talk 

In  the  high  style  which  they  think  fashionable  ; 

My  pathos  certainly  would  make  you  laugh  too, 

Had  you  not  long  since  given  over  laughing. 

Nothing  know  I  to  say  of  suns  and  worlds  ; 

I  observe  only  how  men  plague  themselves  ; 

The  little  god  o'er  the  world  keeps  the  same  stamp, 

As  wonderful  as  on  creation's  day  : 

A  little  better  would  he  live  hadst  thou 

Not  given  him  a  glimpse  of  heaven's  light 

Which  he  calls  reason,  and  employs  it  only 

To  live  more  beastily  than  any  beast. 

"With  reverence  to  your  Lordship  be  it  spoken, 

He's  like  one  of  tho.se  long-legged  grasshoppers 

Who  flits  and  jumps  about,  and  sings  for  ever 

The  same  old  song  i'  the  grass.     There  let  him  lie, 

Burying  his  nose  in  every  heap  of  dung. 

THE    LORD. 

Have  you  no  more  to  say  ?     Do  you  come  here 
Always  to  .scold  and  cavil  and  complain  ? 
Seems  nothing  ever  right  to  you  on  earth  ? 

GABRIEL. 

And  swift,  and  inconceivably  swift 

Tlie  adornment  of  earUi  winds  itself  round, 

And  exclianffes  paradise-clearness 

With  deep  dreadful  nidit. 

The  sea  foains  in  bro.id  waves 

From  its  deep  bottom  up  to  the  rocks. 

And  rocks  and  sea  are  torn  on  together 

In  the  eternal  swift  course  of  the  spheres. 
MICHaEI,. 

And  storms  roar  in  emulation 

From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea, 

And  make,  raging,  a  chain 

Of  deepest  operation  round  about. 

There  flames  a  flashing  destruction 

Before  the  path  of  the  thunderbolt. 

But  thy  servants,  Lord,  revere 

The  gentle  alternations  of  thy  day. 
CHORUS. 

Thy  countenance  gives  the  angels  strength, 

Though  none  can  conipreheud  thee  ; 

And  all  thy  lofty  works 

Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  day. 
Such  is  a  literal  translation  of  this  astonishing  chorus.     It  is  impossible  to  represent 
in  another  language  the  melody  of  the  ver.utication ;  even  the  volatile  strength  and  deli- 
cacy of  the  ideas  escape  in  the  crucible  of  translation,  and  the  reader  is  surprised  to  find 
a  caput  mortuum.  —  Author'*  note. 

47 


738  SCENES    FROM    FAUST. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

No,  Lord  ;  I  find  all  there,  as  ever,  bad  at  best. 
Even  I  am  sorry  for  man's  days  of  sorrow^ ; 
I  could  myself  almost  tjive  up  the  pleasure 
Of  plaguing  the  poor  things. 

THE    LORD. 

Knowest  thou  Faust  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

The  doctor  ? 

THE    LORD, 

Ay  ;  my  servant  Faust. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

In  truth 
He  serves  you  in  a  fashion  quite  his  ovs^n, 
And  the  fool's  meat  and  drink  are  not  of  earth. 
His  aspirations  bear  him  on  so  far 
That  he  is  half  aware  of  his  own  folly. 
For  he  demands  from  heaven  its  fairest  star, 
And  from  the  earth  the  highest  joy  it  bears ; 
Yet  all  things  far,  and  all  things  near,  are  vain 
To  calm  the  deep  emotions  of  his  breast. 

THE    LORD. 

Though  he  now  serves  me  in  a  cloud  of  error, 

I  will  soon  lead  him  forth  to  the  clear  day. 

When  trees  look  green,  full  well  the  gardener  knows 

That  fruits  and  blooms  will  deck  the  coming  year. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What  will  you  bet  ?  —  now  I  am  sure  of  winning  — 
Only  observe  you  give  me  full  permission 
To  lead  him  softly  on  my  path. 

THE    LORD. 

As  long 
As  he  shall  live  upon  the  earth,  so  long 
Is  nothing  unto  thee  forbidden.  —  Man 
Must  err  till  he  has  ceased  to  struggle. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Thanks. 
And  that  is  all  I  ask  ;  for  willingly 
I  never  make  acquaintance  with  the  dead. 
The  full  fresh  cheeks  of  youth  are  food  for  me, 
And  if  a  corpse  knocks,  1  am  not  at  home. 
For  I  am  like  a  cat — I  like  to  play 
A  little  with  the  mouse  before  I  eat  it. 

THE    LORD. 

Well,  well,  it  is  permitted  thee.     Draw  thou 
His  spirit  from  its  springs  ;  as  thou  find'st  power. 
Seize  him  and  lead  him  on  thy  downward  path ; 
And  stand  ashamed  when  failure  teaches  thee 
That  a  good  man,  even  in  his  darkest  longings, 
Is  well  aware  of  the  right  way. 


SCENES  FROM  FAUST.  739 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Well  and  good. 
I  am  not  in  much  doubt  about  my  bet, 
And.  if  I  lose,  then  'tis  your  turn  to  crow  : 
Enjoy  your  triumph  then  with  a  full  breast. 
Ay;  dust  shall  he  devour,  and  that  w^ith  pleasure. 
Like  my  old  paramour,  the  famous  Snake. 

THE    LORD. 

Pray  come  here  when  it  suits  you  ;  for  I  never 
Had  much  dislike  for  people  of  your  sort. 
And,  among  all  the  spirits  who  rebelled, 
The  knave  was  ever  the  least  tedious  to  me. 
The  active  spirit  of  man  soon  sleeps,  and  soon 
He  seeks  unbroken  quiet;  therefore  I 
Have  given  him  the  devil  for  a  companion, 
Who  may  provoke  him  to  some  sort  of  work, 
And  must  create  for  ever. —  But  ye,  pure 
Children  of  God,  enjoy  eternal  beauty  : 
Let  that  which  ever  operates  and  lives 
Clasp  you  within  the  limits  of  its  love ; 
And  seize  with  sweet  and  melancholy  thoughts 
The  floating  phantoms  of  its  loveliness. 

iHeaven  closes  :  the  archangels  exeunt. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

From  time  to  time  I  visit  the  old  fellow, 

And  I  take  care  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  him. 

Civil  enough  is  this  same  God  Almighty, 

To  talk  so  freely  with  the  devil  himself! 


SCENE. 


MAY-DAY    NIGHT. 

The  Hartz  Mountain,  a  desolate  Country. 

FAUST,  MEPHISTOPHELES. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 

WotTLD  you  not  like  a  broomstick  ?     As  for  me, 

I  wish  I  had  a  good  stout  ram  to  ride  : 

For  we  are  still  far  from  th'  appointed  place. 

FAUST. 

This  knotted  staff  is  help  enough  for  me. 

While  I  feel  fresh  upon  my  legs.     What  good 

Is  there  in  making  short  a  pleasant  way  ? 

To  creep  along  the  labyrinths  of  the  vales, 

And  climb  those  rocks,  where  ever-babbling  springs 

Precipitate  themselves  in  waterfalls, 

In  the  true  sport  that  seasons  such  a  path. 

Already  Spring  kindles  the  birchen  spray, 

And  the  hoar  pines  already  feel  her  breath  : 

Shall  she  not  work  also  within  our  limbs  ? 


740  SCENES    FROM    FAUST. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Nothing  of  such  an  influence  do  I  feel. 

My  body  is  all  wintry,  and  I  wish 

The  flowers  upon  our  path  were  frost  and  snow. 

But  see,  how  melancholy  rises  now, 

Dimly  uplifting  her  belated  beam, 

The  blank  unwelcome  round  of  the  red  moon, 

And  gives  so  bad  a  light,  that  every  step 

One  stumbles  'gainst  some  crag.     With  your  permission 

I'll  call  an  ignis-fatuus  to  our  aid  : 

I  see  one  yonder  burning  jollily. 

Halloo,  my  friend  !  may  I  request  that  you 

Would  favor  us  with  your  bright  company  1 

Why  should  you  blaze  away  there  to  no  purpose  ? 

Pray  be  so  good  as  light  us  up  this  way. 

IGNIS-FATUUS. 

With  reverence  be  it  spoken,  I  will  try 
To  overcome  the  lightness  of  my  nature  ; 
Our  course,  you  know,  is  generally  zigzag, 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Ha.  ha !  your  w^orship  thinks  you  have  to  deal 
With  men.     Go  straight  on,  in  the  devil's  name, 
Or  I  shall  puff  your  flickering  life  out. 

IGNIS-FATUUS. 

Well, 
I  see  you  are  the  master  of  the  house  ; 
I  will  accommodate  myself  to  you. 
Only  consider  that  to-night  this  mountain 
Is  all-enchanted,  and  if  Jack-a-lantern 
Shows  you  his  way,  though  you  should  miss  your  own, 
You  ought  not  to  be  too  exact  with  him. 

FAUST,  MEPHISTOPHELES  and  IGNIS-FATUUS,  iti  alternate  Chorus 

The  limits  of  the  sphere  of  dream. 
The  bounds  of  true  and  false,  are  past. 
Lead  us  on,  thou  wandering  Gleam, 
Lead  us  onward,  far  and  fast. 
To  the  wide,  the  desert  waste. 
But  see,  how  swift  advance  and  shift 
Trees  behind  trees,  row  by  row  — 
How,  clift  by  clift,  rocks  bend  and  lift 
Their  frowning  foreheads  as  we  go  ! 
The  giant-snouted  crags,  ho  !  ho  ! 
How  they  snort  and  how  they  blow  ! 

Through  the  mossy  sods  and  stones. 
Stream  and  streamlet  hurry  down, 
A  rushing  throng  !     A  sound  of  song 
Beneath  the  vault  of  heaven  is  blown  ! 
Sweet  notes  of  love,  the  speaking  tones 
Of  this  bright  day,  sent  down  to  say 
That  paradise  on  earth  is  known. 


SCENES  FROM  FAUST.  741 

Resound  around,  beneath,  above. 
All  we  hope  and  all  we  love 
Finds  a  voice  in  this  blithe  strain, 
Which  wakens  hill  and  wood  and  rill, 
And  vibrates  far  o'er  field  and  vale, 
And  which  Echo,  like  the  tale 
Of  old  times,  repeats  again. 

To  whoo  !  to  whoo  !  near,  nearer  now 

The  sound  of  song,  the  rushing  throng? 

Are  the  screech,  the  lapwing,  and  the  jay. 

All  awake  as  if  'twere  day  ? 

See,  with  long  legs  and  belly  wide, 

A  salamander  in  the  brake  ! 

Everj'  root  is  like  a  snake, 

And  along  the  loose  hillside. 

With  strange  contortions  through  the  night, 

Curls,  to  seize  or  to  aftVi^^ht ; 

And  animated,  strong,  and  many, 

They  dart  forth  polypus  antennas. 

To  blister  with  their  poison  spume 

The  wanderer.     Through  the  dazzling  gloom 

The  many-colored  mice  that  thread 

The  dewy  turf  beneath  o  ir  tread. 

In  troops  each  other's  motions  cross, 

Through  the  heath  and  through  the  moss; 

And  in  legions  iulertangled. 

The  fire  flies  flit,  and  swarm,  and  throng, 

Till  all  the  mountain  depths  are  spangled. 

Tell  me,  shall  we  go  or  stay  ? 
Shall  we  onward  ?     Come  along  ! 
Everything  around  is  swept 
Porward,  onward,  far  away  ! 
Trees  and  masses  intercept 
The  sight,  and  wisps  on  eveiy  side 
Are  putted  up  and  multiplied. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Now  vigorously  seize  my  skirt,  and  gain 
This  pinnacle  of  isolated  crag. 
One  may  observe  with  wonder  from  this  point 
How  Mammon  glows  among  the  mountains. 

FAUST. 

Ay— 
And  strangely  through  the  solid  depth  below 
A  melancholy  light,  like  the  red  dawn. 
Shoots  from  the  lowest  gorge  of  the  abyss 
Of  mountain.s,  lighting  hitherward ;  there,  rise 
Pillars  of  smoke  ;  here,  clouds  float  gently  by  ; 
Here  the  light  burns  soft  as  the  enkindled  air, 
Or  the  illumined  dust  of  golden  flowers; 
And  now  it  glides  like  tender  colors  spreading  ; 


742  SCENES  FROM  FAUST. 

And  now  bursts  forth  in  fountains  from  the  earth  ; 
And  now  it  winds  one  torrent  of  broad  light, 
Through  the  far  valley  with  a  hundred  veins  ; 
And  now  once  more  within  that  narrow  corner 
Masses  itself  into  intensest  splendor. 
And  near  us  see  sparks  spring  out  of  the  ground, 
Like  golden  sand  scattered  upon  the  darkness ; 
The  pinnacles  of  that  black  wall  of  mountains 
That  hems  us  in  are  kindled. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Rare,  in  faith ! 
Does  not  Sir  Mammon  gloriously  illuminate 
His  palace  for  this  festival  —  it  is 
A  pleasure  which  you  had  not  known  before. 
I  spy  the  boisterous  guests  already. 

FAUST. 

How 

The  children  of  the  wind  rage  in  the  air ! 

With  what  fierce  strokes  they  fall  upon  my  neck! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Cling  tightly  to  the  old  ribs  of  the  crag. 
Beware  !  for  if  with  them  thou  warrest 
In  their  fierce  flight  toward  the  wilderness. 
Their  breath  will  sweep  thee  into  dust,  and  drag 
Thy  body  to  a  grave  in  the  abyss. 
A  cloud  thickens  the  night. 
Hark  !  how  the  tempest  crashes  through  the  forest ! 

The  owls  fly  out  in  strange  affright ; 
The  columns  of  the  evergreen  palaces 
Are  split  and  shattered  ; 
The  roots  creak,  and  stretch,  and  groan ; 
And,  ruinously  overthrown. 
The  trunks  are  crushed  and  shattered 
By  the  fierce  blast's  unconquerable  stress. 
Over  each  other  crack  and  crash  they  all 
In  terrible  and  intertangled  fall ; 
And  through  the  ruins  of  the  shaken  mountain 

The  airs  hiss  and  howl  — 
It  is  not  the  voice  of  the  fountain. 
Nor  the  wolf  in  his  midnight  prowl. 
Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 

Strange  accents  are  ringing 
Aloft,  afar,  anear; 

The  w^itches  are  singing  ! 
The  torrent  of  a  raging  wizard's  song 
Streams  the  whole  mountain  along. 

CHORUS   OF   WITCHES. 

The  stubble  is  yellow,  the  corn  is  green, 
Now  to  the  Brocken  the  witches  go  ; 
The  mighty  multitude  here  may  be  seen 
Gathering,  wizard  and  witch,  below. 


SCENES  FROM  FAUST.  743 

Sir  Urean  is  sitting  aloft  in  the  air ; 
Hey  over  stock  !  and  hey  over  stone  ! 
'Twixt  witches  and  incubi,  what  shall  be  done  ? 
Tell  it  who  dare  !   tell  it  who  dare ! 

A    VOICE. 

Upon  a  sow- swine,  whose  farrows  were  nine, 
Old  Baubo  rideth  alone. 

CHOUUS. 

Honor  her  to  whom  honor  is  due  — 

Old  mother  Baubo,  honor  to  you  ! 

An  able  sow,  with  old  Baubo  upon  her. 

Is  worthy  of  glory  and  worthy  of  honor ! 

The  legion  of  witches  is  coming  behind, 

Darkening  the  night  and  outspeedingthe  wind  — 

A   VOICE. 

Which  way  comest  thou  ? 


Over  Ilsenstein  ; 
The  owl  w^as  awake  in  the  white  moonshine ; 
I  saw  her  at  rest  in  her  downy  nest, 
And  she  stared  at  me  with  her  broad  bright  eye. 

VOICES. 

And  you  may  now  as  well  take  your  course  on  to  hell, 
Since  you  ride  by  so  fast  on  the  headlong  blast. 

A   VOICE. 

She  dropped  poison  upon  me  as  I  past. 
Here  are  the  wounds 


CHORUS    OF   WITCHES. 

Come  away  !  come  along  ! 

The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long. 

But  what  is  that  for  a  Bedlam  throng  ? 

Stick  with  the  prong  and  scratch  with  the  broom. 

The  child  in  the  cradle  lies  strangled  at  home, 

And  the  mother  is  clapping  her  hands.  — 

SEMICHORUS    OF   W^IZARDS    1. 

We  glide  in 
Like  snails  when  the  women  are  all  away ; 
And  from  a  house  once  given  over  to  sin 
Woman  has  a  thousand  steps  to  stray. 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

A  thousand  steps  must  a  woman  take. 
Where  a  man  but  a  single  spring  will  make. 

VOICES   ABOVE. 

Come  with  us,  come  with  us,  from  Felunsee. 

VOICES    BELOW. 

With  what  joy  would  we  fly  through  the  upper  sky  ! 


744  SCENES  FROM  FAUST. 

We  are  washed,  we  are  'nointed,  stark  naked  are  we  ; 
But  our  toil  and  our  pain  are  for  ever  in  vain. 

BOTH    CHORUSES. 

The  wind  is  still,  the  stars  are  fled, 
The  melancholy  moon  is  dead  : 
The  magic  notes,  like  spark  on  spark, 
Drizzle,  whistling  through  the  dark. 
Come  away  ! 

VOICES   BELOW. 

Stay,  oh  stay ! 

VOICES    ABOVE. 

Out  of  the  crannies  of  the  rocks, 
Who  calls? 

VOICES    BELOW. 

Oh,  let  me  join  your  flocks ! 

I  three  hundred  years  have  striven 

To  catch  your  skirt  and  mount  to  heaven  — 

And  still  in  vain.     Oh,  might  1  be 

With  company  akin  to  me  ! 

BOTH    CHORUSES. 

Some  on  a  ram  and  some  on  a  prong, 

On  poles  and  on  broomsticks  we  flutter  along ; 

Forlorn  is  the  wight  who  can  rise  not  to-night. 

A   HALF-WITCH    BELOW. 

I  have  been  tripping  this  many  an  hour : 
Are  the  others  already  so  far  before  ? 
No  quiet  at  home,  and  no  peace  abroad  ! 
And  less  methinks  is  found  by  the  road. 

CHORUS    OF   WITCHES. 

Come  onward,  away  !  aroint  thee,  aroint ! 

A  witch  to  be  strong  must  anoint  —  anoint — 

Then  every  trough  will  be  boat  enough  ; 

With  a  rag  for  a  sail  we  can  sweep  through  the  sky, 

Who  flies  not  to-night,  when  means  he  to  fly  ? 

BOTH    CHORUSES. 

We  cling  to  the  skirt,  and  we  strike  on  the  ground  ; 
Witch-legions  thicken  around  and  around  ; 
Wizard-swarms  cover  the  heath  all  over.      [They  descend. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What  thronging,  dashing,  raging,  rustling  ! 
What  whispering,  babbling,  hissing,  bustling! 
What  glimmering,  spurting,  stinking,  burning  ! 
As  heaven  and  earth  were  overturning. 
There  is  a  true  witch  element  about  us : 
Take  hold  on  me,  or  we  shall  be  divided : 
Where  are  you  ? 

FAUST  (from  a  distance). 
Here ! 


SCENES    FROM    FAUST.  745 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What ! 
I  must  exert  my  authority  in  the  house. 
Place  for  young  Voland  !    Pray  make  way,  good  people. 
Take  hold  on  me,  doctor,  and  with  one  step 
Let  us  escape  from  this  unpleasant  crowd  : 
They  are  too  mad  for  people  of  my  sort. 
Just  there  shines  a  peculiar  kind  of  light  — 
Something  attracts  me  in  those  bushes.     Come 
This  way :  we  shall  slip  down  there  in  a  minute. 

FAUST. 

Spirit  of  contradiction  !     Well,  lead  on  — 
'Twere  a  wise  feat  indeed  to  wander  out 
Into  the  Brocken  upon  May-day  night, 
And  then  to  isolate  oneself  in  scorn. 
Disgusted  with  the  humors  of  the  time ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

See  yonder,  round  a  many-colored  flame 
A  merry  club  is  huddled  all  together  : 
Even  with  such  little  people  as  sit  there 
One  would  not  be  alone. 

FAUST. 

Would  that  T  were 
Up  yonder  in  the  glow  and  whirling  smoke. 
Where  the  blind  million  rush  impetuously 
To  meet  the  evil  ones  ;  there  might  I  solve 
Many  a  riddle  that  torments  me  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Yet 
Many  a  riddle  there  is  tied  anew 
Inextricably.     Let  the  great  world  rage  !  ^ 
"We  will  stay  here  safe  in  the  quiet  dwellings. 
'Tis  an  old  custom.     Men  have  ever  built 
Their  own  small  world  in  the  great  world  of  all. 
I  see  young  witches  naked  there,  and  old  ones 
Wisely  attired  with  greater  decency. 
Be  guided  now  by  me,  and  you  shall  buy 
A  pound  of  pleasure  with  a  drachm  of  trouble. 
I  hear  them  tune  their  instruments  —  one  must 
Get  used  to  this  damned  scraping  !     Come,  I'll  lead  you 
Among  them  ;  and  what  there  you  do  and  see, 
As  a  fresh  compact  'twixt  us  two  shall  be. 

How  say  you  now  ?  this  space  is  wide  enough  — 
Look  forth,  you  can  not  see  the  end  of  it  — 
A  hundred  bonfires  burn  in  rows,  and  they 
"Who  throng  around  them  seem  innumerable: 
Dancing  and  drinking,  jabbering,  making  love, 
And  cooking,  are  at  work.     Now  tell  me,  friend, 
What  is  there  better  in  the  world  than  thk  ? 


746  SCENES  FROM  FAUST. 


In  introducing  us,  do  you  assume 
The  character  of  wizard  or  of  devil  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

In  truth,  I  generally  go  about 

In  strict  incognito  ;  and  yet  one  likes 

To  wear  one's  orders  upon  gala-days. 

I  have  no  riband  at  my  knee  ;  but  here 

At  home,  the  cloven  foot  is  honorable. 

See  you  that  snail  there  ?  —  she  comes  creeping  up, 

And  with  her  feeling  eyes  hath  smelt  out  something  : 

I  could  not,  if  I  would,  mask  myself  here. 

Come,  now,  we'll  go  about  from  fire  to  fire, 

I'll  be  the  pimp,  and  you  shall  be  the  lover. 

iTo  some  old  women,  who  are  sitting  round  a  heap  of 
glimmering  coals. 
Old  gentlewomen,  what  do  you  do  out  here  ? 
You  ought  to  be  with  the  young  rioters 
Right  in  the  thickest  of  the  revelry  — 
Bat  every  one  is  best  content  at  home. 

GENERAL. 

Who  dare  confide  in  right  or  a  just  claim  ? 

So  much  as  I  had  done  for  them  !  and  now  — 
With  women  and  the  people  'tis  the  same, 

Youth  will  stand  foremost  ever  —  age  may  go 
^o  the  dark  grave  unhonored. 

MINISTER. 

Now-a-days 
People  assert  their  rights  :  they  go  too  far ; 

But,  as  for  me,  the  good  old  times  I  praise. 
Then  we  were  all  in  all :  'twas  something  worth 

One's  while  to  be  in  place  and  wear  a  star ; 
That  was  indeed  the  golden  age  on  earth. 

PARVENU.* 

We,  too,  are  active,  and  we  did  and  do 

What  we  ought  not,  perhaps  ;  and  yet  we  now 

W^ill  seize,  while  all  things  are  whirled  round  and  round, 

A  spoke  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and  keep  our  ground. 


W^ho  now  can  taste  a  treatise  of  deep  sense 
And  ponderou^volume  ?     'Tis  impertinence 
To  write  what  none  will  read,  therefore  will  I 
To  please  the  young  and  thoughtless  people  try. 

MEPHISTOPHELES  fwko  at  once  appears  to  have  grown  very  oldji 
I  find  the  people  ripe  for  the  last  day, 
Since  1  last  came  up  to  the  wizard  mountain  ; 
And  as  my  little  cask  runs  turbid  now, 
So  is  the  world  drained  to  the  dregs. 

«!«•        "A  sort  of  fund-holdan 


SCENES    FROM    FAUST.  747 

PEDDLER-WITCH. 

Look  here, 
Gentlemen  :  do  not  hurry  on  so  fast. 
And  lose  the  chance  of  a  good  pennyworth. 
I  have  a  pack  full  of  the  choicest  wares 
Of  every  sort,  and  yet  in  all  my  bundle 
Is  nothing  like  what  may  be  found  on  earth ; 
Nothing  that  in  a  moment  will  make  rich 
Men  and  the  world  with  line  malicious  mischief. — 
There  is  no  dagger  drunk  with  blood  ;  no  bowl 
From  which  consuming  poison  may  be  drained 
By  innocent  and  healthy  lips  ;  no  jewel, 
The  price  of  an  abandoned  maiden's  shame  ; 
No  sword  which  cuts  the  bond  it  can  not  loose, 
Or  stabs  the  wearer's  enemy  in  the  back  : 
No 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Gossip,  you  know  little  of  these  times. 
What  has  been,  has  been  :  what  is  done,  is  past. 
They  shape  themselves  into  the  innovations 
They  breed,  and  innovation  drags  us  with  it. 
The  torrent  of  the  crowd  sweeps  over  us ; 
You  think  to  impel,  and  are  yourself  impelled. 


Who  is  that  yonder  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Mark  her  well.    It  is 
Lilith. 


-^0^ 
^f^ 


Who? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Lilith,  the  first  wife  of  Adam. 
Beware  of  her  fair  hair,  for  she  excels 
All  women  in  the  magic  of  her  locks ; 
And  when  she  winds  them  round  a  young  man's  ne^lc^ 
She  will  not  ever  set  him  free  again.  ■^ 

FAUST. 

There  sit  a  girl  and  an  old  woman  :  they 
Seem  to  be  tired  with  pleasure  and  with  play. 

MEPHISTOPHELES.         ^ 

There  is  no  rest  to-night  for  any  one  : 
When  one  dance  ends,  another  is  begun ; 
Come,  let  us  to  it.     We  shall  have  rare  fun  ! 

[Faust  dances  and  sings  with  a  girl,  and  MephistopHBLBS 
with  an  old  woman. 

BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

What  is  this  cursed  multitude  about  ? 

Have  wo  not  long  since  proved  to  demon&mtion 


748  SCENES  FROM  FAUST. 

That  ghosts  move  not  on  ordinary  feet  ? 

But  these  are  dancing  just  like  men  and  women. 

THE   GIRL. 

What  does  he  want  then  at  our  hall  7 

FAUST. 

Oh !  he 
Is  far  above  us  all  in  his  conceit : 
While  we  enjoy,  he  reasons  of  enjoyment ; 
And  any  step  which  in  our  dance  we  tread, 
If  it  be  left  out  of  his  reckoning, 
Is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  step. 
There  are  few  things  that  scandalize  him  not ; 
And,  when  you  whirl  round  in  the  circle  now, 
As  he  went  round  the  wheel  in  his  old  mill. 
He  says  that  you  go  wrong  in  all  respects, 
Especially  if  you  congratulate  him 
Upon  the  strength  of  the  resemblance. 

BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

Fly! 
"Vanish !    Unheard-of  impudence  !     What,  still  there  ? 
In  this  enlightened  age  too,  since  you  have  been 
Proved  not  to  exist !  — But  this  infernal  brood 
Will  hear  no  reason  and  endure  no  rule. 
Are  we  so  wise,  and  is  the  pond  still  haunted  ? 
How  long  have  I  been  sweeping  out  this  rubbish 
Of  superstition,  and  the  world  will  not 
Come  clean  with  all  my  pains  !  —  it  is  a  case 
Unheard  of  I 

THE   GIRL. 

Then  leave  off  teasing  us  so. 

BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

I  tell  you,  spirits,  to  your  faces  now, 
That  I  should  not  regret  this  despotism 
Of  spirits,  but  that  mine  can  wield  it  not. 
To-Bight  I  shall  make  poor  work  of  it, 
Yet  I  will  take  a  round  with  you,  and  hope 
Before  my  last  step  in  the  living  dance 
To  beat  the  poet  and  the  devil  together. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

At  last  he  will  sit  down  in  some  foul  puddle  ; 
That  is  his  way  of  solacing  himself; 
Until  some  leech,  diverted  with  his  gravity, 
Cures  him  of  spirits  and  the  spirit  together. 

[To  Faust,  who  has  seceded  from  the  dance. 
Why  do  you  let  that  fair  girl  pass  from  you, 
Who  sang  so  sweetly  to  you  in  the  dance  ? 

FAUST. 

A  red  mouse  in  the  middle  of  her  singing 
Sprang  from  her  mouth. 


SCENES    FROM    FAUST.  749 

MKPHIST0PHELE3. 

That  was  all  right,  my  friend. 
Be  it  enough  that  the  mouse  was  not  gray. 
Do  not  disturb  your  hour  of  happiness 
With  close  consideration  of  such  trifles. 

FAUST. 

Then  saw  I 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What?  ' 

FAUST. 

Seest  thou  not  a  pale 
Fair  girl,  standing  alone,  far,  far  away  ? 
She  drags  herself  now  forward  with  slow  steps, 
And  seems  as  if  she  moved  with  shackled  feet : 
I  can  not  overcome  the  thought  that  she 
Is  like  poor  Margaret. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Let  it  be  —  pass  on  — 
No  good  can  come  of  it  —  it  is  not  well 
To  meet  it — it  is  an  enchanted  phantom, 
A  lifeless  idol ;  with  its  numbing  look, 
It  freezes  up  the  blood  of  man  :  and  they 
Who  meet  its  ghastly  stare  are  turned  to  stone. 
Like  those  who  saw  Medusa. 

FAUST. 

O,  too  true ! 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  of  a  fresh  corpse 
Which  no  beloved  hand  has  closed.     Alas  ! 
That  is  the  breast  which  Margaret  yielded  to  me  — 
Those  are  the  lovely  limbs  which  I  enjoyed  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

It  is  all  magic,  poor  deluded  fool : 

She  looks  to  every  one  like  his  first  lo^. 

FAUST. 

0  what  delight !  what  woe  !     I  can  not  turn 
My  looks  from  her  sweet  piteous  countenance. 
How  strangely  does  a  single  blood-red  line, 
Not  broader  than  the  sharp  edge  of  a  knife. 
Adorn  her  lovely  neck  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Ay,  she  can  carry 
Her  head  under  her  arm  upon  occasion  , 
Perseus  has  cut  it  off  for  her.     These  pleasures 
End  in  delusion.  —  Gain  this  rising  ground, 
It  is  as  airy  here  as  in  a  [  ] 

And  if  I  am  not  mightily  deceived, 

1  see  a  theatre.  —  What  may  this  mean  ? 


750  SCENES  FROM  FAUST. 

ATTENDANT. 

Q.uite  a  new  piece,  the  last  of  seven,  for  'tis 
The  custom  now  to  represent  that  number. 
'Tis  written  by  a  Dilettante,  and 
The  actors  who  perform  are  Dilettanti ; 
Excuse  me,  gentlemen  :  but  1  must  vanish. 
I  am  a  Dilettante  curtain-lifter. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Preface -.        .        .        .    page    7 

Revolt  of  Tslam       -        -        -        - 33 

daoen  Mab     -         -         -         - 163 

Alastor            211 

Prometheus  Unbound 233 

The  Ceuci 3n9 

Hellas  -         -  -         -         -         -         -         -         -  .  389 

Early  Poems — 

Mutability 423 

On  Death     -         -           ' 423 

To  Harriet   - -         -  424 

To    *  '^  *  *• 425 

Stanzas— April,  1814 425 

A  Summer  Evenin^^  Churchyard         .        -         -        .  40(5 

Lines             -  427 

To  Wordsworth 428 

Feelings  of  a  Republican  on  the  Fall  of  Bonaparte   -  428 
Poems  written  in  1816 — 

The  Sunset 429 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 430 

Mont  Blanc 432 

Poems  wrfttkn  in  1817-— 

Prince  Atiianase 436 

Marianne"^  Dream 444 

To  Constantia  Singing 447 

To  Constantia 44«t 

On  F.  G.               448 

Death                    44S 

Lines                      449 

Lines  to  a  Critic -        -  449 

Sonnet 450 

Poems  written  in  1818— 

Rosalind  and  Helen 452 

Lines  written  amonsr  the  Ens-nncnn  Hills   -         .        -  478 


752  TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 

Song:  for  Tasso page  485 

To  Mary 486 

Passage  of  the  Apennines 486 

The  Past 487 

Mazenghi 487 

The  Woodman  and  the  Nightingale    -        -        -         -  489 

Stanzas  written  in  dejection,  near  Naples    -        -         -  490 

Miseiy — a  Fragment 492 

On  a  faded  Violet 493 

Sonnet 494 

Poems  written  in  1819 — 

The  Masque  of  Anarchy      -     .    -        -         -         -  495 

Song — To  the  Men  of  England  -        -        -         -        -  505 

Lines  written  during  the  Castlereagh  Administration  -  50G 

Similes 507 

An  Ode  to  the  Asserters  of  Liberty    ...        -  507 

England  in  1819       , 508 

To  William  Shelley 509 

On  the  Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci         -        -        -  509 

Ode  to  Heaven 510 

An  Exhortation    -         -        - 511 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 512 

Poems  written  in  1820 — 

The  Sensitive  Plant     -                 515 

A  Vision  of  the  Sea 522 

Love's  Philosophy        -                  526 

To 526 

The  Cloud 527 

To  a  Skylark 529 

Ode  to  Liberty 532 

Arethusa -        -        -  538 

Hymn  of  Apollo           --..--.  540 

Hymn  of  Pan       .----.--  541 

Song  of  Proserpine       -..----  542 

The  Two  Spirits— an  Allegory 542 

The  (Question 543 

Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne     ------  544 

Julian  and  Maddalo      ..----.  551 

To  Mary 564 

The  Witch  of  Atlas 565 

Ode  to  Naples 578 

Autumn — a  Dirge        .----..  582 

An  Allegory 583 

The  Waning  Moon 583 

Death -  583 


i 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS.  753 

Liberty page  584 

.    Summer  and  Winter 584 

The  World's  Wanderers 585 

To  the  Moon 585 

The  Tower  of  Famine        -..--.  585 

Sonnet 586 

Lines  to  a  Reviewer   -------  586 

Poems  writtkn  in  1821 — 

Epipsyehidion      -----                 -        -  587 

Adonais        .-.------  601 

To  E***  V** 615 

Time             615 

Mutability 615 

From  the  Arabic          .----.-  616 

Lines             C16 

To 617 

To  Night 617 

The  Fugitives 618 

To  619 

Song              -        - 620 

To 621 

Lines  on  hearing  the  News  of  the  Death  of  Napoleon  622 

Evening 623 

A  Fragment         --------  623 

Genevra        .--.-----  624 

The  Dirge 628 

To-Morrow 628 

A  Fragment 629 

A  Bridal  Song 629 

A  Lament -.-  630 

To  630 

The  Boat 631 

TheAzeola 633 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air         ------  633 

Music             .-.------  634 

Good  Night 634 

A  Lament    ---------  635 

Stanzas         -        -        -        -        -        •        -        -,-  635 

Sonnet           ---------  636 

Dirge  for  the  Year       -------  637 

Poems  written  in  1822 — 

The  Zucca 638 

The  Magnetic  Lady  to  her  Patient     -        -        -        -  640 

With  a  Guitar 641 

An  Arietta,  for  Music -        -  642 


754  TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 

To  the  Queen  of  my  Heart         ....  page  643 

Fragments  of  an  Unfinished  Drama    ....  644 

The  Isle 647 

The  Pine  Forest  of  the  Cascine,  near  Pisa  -        -        -  647 

Lines             -         -         -        -        -        -        -        -        -  650 

A  Song 651 

Fragment 651 

To  William  Shelley     ------.  651 

On  Keats 652 

Epitaph        -         - 653 

Charles  T.— a  Fragment 653 

The  Triumph  of  Life 660 

Hymn  to  Mercury 674 

Translated  from  the  Greek  of  Moschus        ...  693 

Sonnet  from  Moschus 693 

The  Cyclops — a  Satyric  Drama  -         .        -        -        .  694 

Sonnet — from  Dante 716 

Spirit  of  Plato— fiom  the  Greek 716 

From  the  Greek 716 

To  Stella— from  Plato 717 

From  Plato ^        .        .  717 

Scenes  fro^m  the  "  Magico  Prodigioso"  of  Calderon    -  717 

Scenes  from  the  "  Faust"  of  Goethe    ....  736 


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